


Sherlock Holmes and The Adventures on Abbey Road

by Deadlydollies13



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Amnesia, Anterograde Amnesia, Canon Compliant, Domestic Violence, Established Mystrade, Eventual Johnlock, F/F, F/M, Found Family, I know nothing about British police, Implied/Referenced Abuse, M/M, Memory Loss, Minor Character Death, Mycroft cares, Mycroft is a Softie, Not Beta Read, Physical Abuse, Pining Sherlock Holmes, Protective Mycroft, Slight OOC, mention of suicide, mentions of abuse
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-05-03
Updated: 2020-12-18
Packaged: 2021-03-02 00:15:05
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 38,832
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23975854
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Deadlydollies13/pseuds/Deadlydollies13
Summary: Abigail Coleman is fresh out of the Academy and an aspiring detective for New Scotland Yard, but only if she can work under a certain Detective Inspector. Soon, she realizes that there is much more that comes along with working with Greg Lestrade and that her life would never be boring again. After losing everything, she finds herself involved with a high-ranking member of the British Government, a former army doctor, and a sociopathic consulting detective, who prove to be what she needed all along.
Relationships: Greg Lestrade & Original Female Character, Mycroft Holmes/Greg Lestrade, Sherlock Holmes/John Watson, Sherlock Holmes/John Watson (Eventual)
Comments: 9
Kudos: 23





	1. The One Where It All Starts

**Author's Note:**

> This story will closely follow the canon, meaning I found the transcripts of the episodes and used them. They belong to the BBC, Moffatt, and Gatiss, and I do not claim them as my own. 
> 
> This will be a very, very slowburn on the Johnlock end, but Mystrade is established. 
> 
> Also, I will be adding tags as the story goes along, so please be mindful of them regarding warnings.

“Detective Inspector, how can suicides be linked?” a reporter asked the man sitting next to her.

Detective Inspector Lestrade sat up straighter, “They all took the same poison. They were all found in places they had no reason to be, none of them had shown any prior indication of-“

Abigail Coleman wrote down every single word the Detective Inspector said in sloppy chicken-scratch in an A5 size spiral notebook. A twenty-year-old girl who had just started at Scotland Yard as Lestrade’s “assistant.” Really, she was just an intern; in charge of fetching his coffee, filing paperwork, doing whatever the Inspector asked of her. She had applied for the position when the position didn’t even exist, coming in three times a week, extensive resume in hand, fresh out of the Academy, but refusing any position that wasn’t with the Detective Inspector’s, basically begging to get a meeting with Gregory Lestrade. She had been turned away seventeen times before she finally caught Lestrade in the lift, and took her chance.

“I’ve wanted to work at New Scotland Yard ever since I can remember, sir,” she said to him.

“Why?” he asked, taking a sip of his coffee as the elevator doors opened. He stepped out and made his way to his office, Abigail following on his tail.

“I’ve just always wanted to be a detective. I’ve looked up to you for years, read everything about you, the cases you’ve solved. Sorry, that makes me sound like a stalker.”

“Yes, but _why_ do you want to become a detective, Miss Coleman?” he took a seat at his desk, folding his hands on his desk. 

“I-I…” she was caught off guard by the question. 

“I’m sorry, Miss Coleman, but I can’t give you the job if-“

“I just want to help people,” she said quietly. “Isn’t that why _you_ do it, Detective Inspector Lestrade?”

Lestrade pursed his lips. He had lost track of how many times this girl had come in. Actually, from the second time she came in and when Greg actually read her file, he was ready to hire her, but wasn’t sure if she actually wanted it or not. “Fine. You’ll be my assistant. You start next week.”

Little did she know, she’d begin her job smack in the middle of a serial suicide case. It was only her second day on the job when she sat in a press conference, dictating every word Lestrade said. Her writing was interrupted by a buzzing in her pocket and an echo of ringtones throughout the room. She took out her mobile to see a text from an unknown number that just said, “ _Wrong!_ ”

Abigail turned to Lestrade to ask about it but noticed he hadn’t touched his phone, just rolled his eyes. 

“If you’ve all got texts, just ignore them,” Sergeant Sally Donovan, the woman running the press conference, said.

Abigail shoved her phone back in her pocket, putting all of her focus once again on what was being said. She didn’t actually know what was being said, she just copied the words she heard, then that night she would go over her notes, making sense of them. 

They were once again interrupted by a unison of ringtones and buzzes, again the text saying, “Wrong!” Lestrade and Donovan looked extremely annoyed, telling the reporters to ignore it.

“One more question,” Sally said. 

“Is there any chance these are murders, and if they are, is this the work of a serial killer?” a female reporter asked.

“I know you like writing about those, but these do appear to be suicides. We know the difference - the poison was clearly self-administered,” Lestrade answered.

She followed up with another question, “Yes, but if they are murders, how do people keep themselves safe?”

“Don’t commit suicide.” 

Abigail couldn’t help but smirk. She wrote it down and underlined it, three times.

Sally whispered something to him and he quickly rephrased his answer, “Obviously this is a frightening time for people, but all anyone has to do is exercise reasonable precautions. We are all as safe as we want to be.”

Again, the room filled with the sound of phones going off, and a text that said nothing more but, “ _Wrong!_ ”

Finally, Lestrade took out his phone and grimaced at the screen.

-

“You’ve got to stop him doing that. He’s making us look like idiots,” Sally and Lestrade reached the office above the press room, Abigail following.

“You tell me how he does it, I’ll stop him,” Lestrade said, going into his office.

“Sir, do you know who sent those texts?” Abigail asked after hesitantly entering his office. Technically, they shared it now. Lestrade had set up a space in the corner for her; just a table and a chair. 

“A pain in my ass,” Lestrade grumbled.

“I’m sorry, sir, I just-“ she started to her desk.

“No, not _you_. Him. He’s a pain in my bloody arse.”

“Who is, sir?” she placed her notebook down on her table.

“Sherlock Holmes,” he sighed. “A ‘Consultant Detective,’ he calls himself. Only one in the world because he made the job up. Doesn’t get paid or anything just comes in and solves the case when we’re at a dead end. I don’t really know how he does it.”

“He’s a freak, is what he is,” Sally was standing in the doorway, arms crossed. Abigail tried not to flinch at the word “freak” and hoped Lestrade didn’t catch her small wince. “If I’ve said it once, I’ve said it a hundred times. He likes it. He gets off on it. Weirder the crime, the more he gets off. And you know what? One day just showing up won’t be enough. One day we’ll be standing 'round a body and Sherlock Holmes will be the one who put it there.”

“I don’t really think…” Abigail started.

“You’ve never met Sherlock Holmes. Once you do, you’ll understand. He’s a psychopath, and psychopaths get bored,” with that, she turned and left his office.

-

Abigail did some research on Sherlock Holmes that night, writing everything she could find out about him in her journal. She found his blog, “The Science of Deduction,” and found it quite interesting. Although, she didn’t really believe he could identify an airline pilot by his left thumb. He was an odd man, yes, but she wouldn’t necessarily label him as a freak, or even a psychopath.

-

“Where are we going, sir?” Abigail asked Lestrade, who was sitting next to her in the driver’s seat of a police car.

“They’ve found a fourth victim,” he answered.

“Oh. So, are we going to the scene?” she hadn’t yet been to one. Greg didn’t let her go to the third victim’s scene, giving her a pile of paperwork to do instead. She hoped she would at least be allowed to go to this one to see Detective Inspector Lestrade at work.

“No, not until later.”

“Then where are we going?”

“221b Baker Street, to see Sherlock Holmes.”

“Why?”

“This time, they’ve left a note. The rest of them didn’t. So, now I’m bringing Sherlock in.”

“Is that allowed, sir?”

“No,” he smirked. “But, we’re doing it anyway.”

“Whatever you think is best, sir,” she had taken to doodling in the margins, mostly circles overlapping themselves.

“What is it you write in that journal?”

“Everything, sir. I believe it’s the best way to become a great detective, by studying an already great one.” Lestrade didn’t say anything, but from the corner of her eye, she swore he smiled.

-

They parked outside 221b Baker Street, but Lestrade had told Abigail to stay in the car while he went in. He wasn’t in there long and when he came out, he had an accomplished look on his face.

“Well?” she asked as he got into the driver’s seat.

“He said he’ll do it.”

Abigail looked out of the car window, “Is he coming?”

“With us?” Greg pulled back out into traffic. “Oh, no, Sherlock won’t ride in a police car. He’ll meet us there. Listen, he does this thing where-“

“Deducing?” she cut him off. “I read his website. It sounds pretty cool.”

“Yeah, in theory. No one likes it when he does it though, it’s kind of creepy if you ask me. Just, I don’t think he means for it to be rude, but if he does it to you, ignore him.”

She nodded, “I don’t really mind, Inspector. I’m sure it’s harmless.”

“Suit yourself.”

-

A cluster of police cars surrounded an abandoned house on a quiet street. While the forensics team worked upstairs, inspecting the body, while Lestrade and Abigail stood on the bottom floor, waiting for Sherlock. 

“Hello, Freak,” she heard Sally say outside in the street. Abigail peered out the door. It was drizzling rain, the only lights in the streets were from cop cars. Two men stood in front of Sally near the yellow police tape. The tall man, lean, curly dark hair, in a long trench coat, must’ve been Sherlock Holmes. As for the man standing with him, shorter, dirty blonde hair, with a cane, Abigail had no idea who he was. From what she read on Sherlock Holmes, she didn’t know he had an assistant or anything.

“You didn’t tell Donovan that Sherlock Holmes was coming?” she asked Lestrade.

“Absolutely not,” he said.

“Freak’s here. Bringing him in,” Sally called over to Greg’s walkie-talkie. Again, Abigail flinched at the word “freak.”

As Sally led Sherlock and the other man towards the house, Anderson pushed his way past Greg and Abigail and outside. 

“I take it he and Anderson don’t like each other much either?” Abigail kept eyeing the group outside, trying to listen while also keeping herself present with Lestrade.

“Sherlock Holmes doesn’t like many people,” he replied.

“But he likes you?”

“That’s debatable,” he began pulling on a fresh pair of white latex gloves, already clad in a crime scene coverall. Abigail still stood in her work clothes that made her look like any ordinary work-woman: slacks, a blouse, and a coat. 

She caught the last of whatever conversation was going on outside the door, “I’m not implying anything - I’m sure Sally just came round for a lovely little chat and happened to stay over. And I assume scrubbed your floors, going by the state of her knees —“

Abigail gaped at Lestrade, “Donovan and Anderson?”

“Do not say a word,” he pointed a finger at her, trying to hide his amusement.

“Ewww,” just the thought of those two together.

“Not a word, Coleman.”

Sherlock and the other man walked into the dimly lit, narrow hallway. 

“I can give you two minutes,” Greg told him.

“I may need longer,” Sherlock replied, striding past him into the kitchen. 

The kitchen was set up as the operations base for the investigation. It was filled with policemen and equipment and harsh, portable lighting. Sherlock grabbed a blue crime scene coverall to the smaller man. Lestrade looked at him, then looked at Sherlock, “Who is this?”

The man looked surprised, like they met before, but Greg didn’t remember ever seeing him. Perhaps the man was with Sherlock when Lestrade went to Sherlock to ask him about the case, but he was in and out so quickly, Lestrade probably paid no attention to him.

“He’s with me,” Sherlock said and the man started to put the coveralls. “Who is she?” he motioned to Abigail.

“She’s with me,” Lestrade answered, crossing his arms. “Really though, who is he?”

“I told you— he’s with me.”

“Aren’t you going to-?” John started to ask, but Sherlock gave him a look that simply said, “No.”

“So, where are we?” Sherlock asked Greg.

“Upstairs. Coleman, put that on,” he pointed to the last coverall sitting on the table. She quickly slipped it on over her clothes and white paper booties over her shoes. The gloves were a bit large for her petite hands, so she had little empty nubs at the tips of her fingers. As long as she could still write, she tucked her journal under her arm.

Sherlock followed Greg upstairs, Abigail and the man trailing behind. “Abigail,” she whispered to the man on the stairs.

He turned to her and gave her a small smile, “John.”

A woman laid face down in an atrociously bright pink coat and matching pink shoes in the middle of the room. 

“Jennifer Wilson, according to her credit cards - we’re running them now for contact details. Hasn’t been here long - some kids found her,” Lestrade filled them in. It was silence after that, except for the sound of a pen scratching on paper as Abigail took notes.

John looked shocked at the sight of the corpse as if he didn’t expect it. _Honestly,_ Abigail thought, _did he think we put these on to play dress-up?_ She, on the other hand, wasn’t paying attention to the dead woman, but rather to Sherlock Holmes, whose eagerness was obvious in the way he looked at the body. 

“Shut up!” Sherlock looked at Lestrade. Abigail quickly put her pen down.

“Didn’t say anything,” Lestrade said, looking back at Abigail to ask if he may have said something and not noticed he had. She shrugged, she didn’t hear anything.

“You were thinking. It’s annoying.”

Lestrade just rolled his eyes, he was obviously used to this. But, John and Abigail were thoroughly fascinated with whatever the hell Sherlock Holmes was doing. He circled the body, paying close attention to every little detail about her. He took note of what was carved on the floorboards. From where Abigail was standing, she read “Rache,” although she didn’t know what it meant. He knelt next to the body and ran a gloved hand over her coat. He pulled a white foldable umbrella out of her coat pocket.

He took out a small, extendable magnifying glass from his own coat pocket and inspected her left hand, then pulled off her wedding band and inspected that closer. Finally, he took a closer look at her face, then when he was done, stood up, indicating he was finished.

“Got anything?” Lestrade asked. 

“Not much,” Sherlock said. Lies, Abigail thought.

“She’s German,” a voice came from behind them, Abigail jumped ever so slightly. No one noticed it, well, maybe except Sherlock Holmes. It was Anderson, leaning against the doorframe into the connecting room where more policemen and people in coveralls were. “‘Rache’ is German for ‘revenge.’ She could be trying to tell us something,” he continued.

Abigail jotted that down in her notes. Sherlock walked past her, “Yes, thank you for your input,” and slammed the door in Anderson’s face. She couldn’t help but smirk, she hadn’t liked Anderson very much either.

“She’s German?” Lestrade watched as Sherlock walked back across the room to the body.

“Of course, she’s not German. She’s from out of town though. Planned to spend a single night in London, before returning home to Cardiff. So far, so obvious.”

Abigail crossed out her notes from Anderson. Then, with a large asterisk, wrote, “Do not listen to Anderson!”

“Sorry, obvious?” John looked flabbergasted.

“What about the message though?” Greg asked.

Ignoring him, Sherlock looked at John, “Dr. Watson, what do you think?” “Dr. John Watson,” Abigail wrote in her notes. 

“Of the message?”

“Of the body, you’re a medical man.”

“We have a whole team right outside,” Lestrade pointed at the door Sherlock slammed.

“They won’t work with me.”

Getting frustrated, Lestrade said, “I’m breaking every rule letting you in here!”

“Yeah, because you need me,” Sherlock retorted. 

Greg glowered at him; glowered at him because Sherlock Holmes was right and Greg knew it. “Yes, I do. G-d help me,” he walked over to the wall and leaned against it, crossing his arms, stepping out of Sherlock’s way. But, he motioned to Abigail, encouraging her not to do the same. She stayed right where she stood, pen, and paper ready.

“Dr. Watson!” Sherlock called him over to the body. 

John gave Lestrade a questioning look and he just shrugged, “Oh, do as he says, help yourself!”

John stepped forward and knelt next to the body while Sherlock knelt on the other side. They exchanged some whispers, Abigail couldn’t hear, before John sniffed the woman’s mouth. “Asphyxiation probably. Passed out, and choked on her own vomit. Can’t smell any alcohol on her - could’ve been a seizure, possibly drugs.” Scribbling once again filled the room.

“You know what it was, you’ve read the papers.”

“She’s one of the suicides. The fourth one.” Perhaps John Watson wasn’t a Consultant Detective like Sherlock Holmes was, because all this man was doing was stating the obvious.

“Sherlock, two minutes I said. Need anything you’ve got,” Greg was beginning to lose patience. 

At that, Sherlock Holmes sprung up and was off like a bullet, “Victim is in her late forties. Professional person going by her clothes - I’d guess something in the media, going by the frankly alarming shade of pink. She’s traveled from Cardiff today, intending to stay for one night - that’s obvious from the size of her suitcase -“

“Suitcase?”

“Suitcase, yes. She’s been married for at least ten years, but not happily. She’s had a string of lovers, but none of them have known she was married -“

“For G-d’s sake. If you’re just making this up…” he looked at Abigail, who was rapidly writing down everything she heard verbatim.

“The wedding ring, ten years old at least. The rest of her jewelry has been regularly cleaned, but not her wedding rings - state of her marriage, right there. The inside of the rings are shinier than the outside - that means they’re regularly removed; the only polishing they get is when she works them off her finger. It’s not for work - look at her nails, she doesn’t work with her hands - so what, or rather who does she remove her rings for? Clearly not one lover - she’d never sustain the fiction of being single over time - so more likely a string of them. Simple!”

“Brilliant,” Abigail and John muttered at the same time. She took a breath, clenching her cramped writing hand. Sherlock and Lestrade looked at them both before they apologized.

“Cardiff?” Lestrade asked about one of the details Sherlock had spewed.

“Obvious, isn’t it?” Sherlock looked around at the three other persons in the room. Abigail had taken to writing again.

“Not obvious to me,” John said.

“Dear G-d, what’s it like in your funny little brains, it must be so boring. Her coat!” But, there was nothing on her coat. “It’s slightly damp - she’s been in heavy rain within the last few hours. No rain anywhere in London at that time. Under her coat collar is damp too. She turned it up against the wind! She’s got an umbrella in her left pocket but it’s unused and dry. Not just wind, strong wind - too strong to use her umbrella. We know from her suitcase that she’s staying overnight so she must have a come a decent distance. But she can’t have traveled more than two or three hours, cos her coat hasn’t dried. So where has there been heavy rain and strong wind within the radius of that travel time?” He held up his mobile phone, “Cardiff.”

“Fantastic!” John exclaimed, but Abigail kept quiet. The three of them all turned their heads towards John.

“Do you know you do that out loud?” Sherlock asked him.

“Sorry, I’ll shut up.”

“No, it’s fine,” Sherlock smirked. Abigail, someone who hadn’t even known the two men for twenty minutes, could see there was something there between them. She wasn’t quite sure what exactly that was, but it wasn’t just an ordinary look. Sherlock liked the attention and praise John was giving him. Lestrade had seen every trick of Sherlock’s trade, but now Sherlock had a new audience, but he could certainly care less about Abigail. 

“Why do you keep saying suitcase?” Greg asked.

“Yeah, where is it? She must have a phone or an organizer - we can find out who Rachel is.”

“She was writing ‘Rachel?’” 

“No, she was leaving an angry note in German - of course, she was writing Rachel. No other word it can be. Question is, why did she wait till she was dying to write it…”

“But, how do you know she had a case?”

“Back of her right leg. Tiny splashes on the heel and calf, not present on the left. She was dragging a wheeled suitcase behind her, with her right hand - you don’t get that splash pattern any other way. Smallish case, going by the spread. Case that size, woman this clothes-conscious - could only be an overnight bag. So we know she was staying one night. Now, where is it - what have you done with it?”

“There wasn’t any case,” Abigail mumbled.

Sherlock spun around and stared at Abigail. She felt all of the color drain from her face as she stood there frozen. “Say that again…” he said to her.

“T-there wasn’t a case, sir. There was never any suitcase here.” At least, Abigail swore she saw no suitcase with the other evidence.

He shoved past her into the hallway and bellowed throughout the house, “Suitcase! Did anyone find a suitcase - was there a suitcase in this house?”

No one answered him. “Sherlock, there was no case!” Lestrade assured him. The three filed into the hallway with him.

“But they take the poison themselves. They chew and swallow the pills themselves, there are clear signs - even you lot couldn’t miss them!”

“Right, yes, thanks - and?”

“... it’s murder. All of them. I don’t know how, but they’re not suicides, they’re killings - serial killings. We’ve got a serial killer. Love those, there’s always something to look forward to.”

“Why are you saying that?” Lestrade asked.

“Where’s her case? Come on, where is it? Did she eat it? Someone else was here - and they took the case. So the killer must have driven her here - forgot the case was in the car…"

“Maybe she checked into her hotel, left her case there,” John tried.

“She never made it to her hotel Look at her hair - colour coordinates her lipstick and her shoes, she’d never have left a hotel with her hair still like-“ then he just stopped. He looked like a light bulb had gone off above his head, like the answer to the universe arrived in an instant. He clapped his hands over his face, “Oh! Oh!”

“Sherlock?”

Sherlock bounded down the rotting wooden stairs and stopped at the bottom. Lestrade, John, and Abigail all stood at the landing and peered over the balustrade. “Sherlock?” John asked.

“What is it?” Lestrade asked.

“Serial killers, always hard. You’ve got to wait for them to make a mistake…"

“We can’t just wait!” Greg yelled.

“Oh, we’re done waiting. Look at her! Really, look! Houston, we have a mistake! Get on to Cardiff, find Jennifer Wilson’s family and friends - find Rachel.”

“Of course, yes. But what mistake?”

“Pink!” with that, he stormed out of the house.

“Okay! Let’s get on with it!” Anderson called to his team. They all rushed into the room with the dead body in it. Lestrade just looked so exasperated. _Sick of Sherlock Holmes’ shenanigans_ , Abigail said to herself.

With all of the hustle around him, John looked lost, not knowing what to do with himself. 

Abigail tapped on his shoulder, “Dr. Watson?” He flinched slightly, turning around to the girl. She was shorter than John. Pale greenish-blue eyes and light brown hair loosely curled and fell right below her shoulders. She smiled at him, “I’ll see you out.”

“O-okay,” he followed her down the stairs and they discarded the coveralls. “What were you writing?”

“Hm? Oh!” she opened up her journal. “I write down everything I hear. Everything Lestrade, you, and Sherlock said. I have an impeccable short-term memory, but my long-term memory is cloudy.” She showed him her hastily written notes. “Really amazing what he does, isn’t it?”

“Yeah, it’s really something. Sorry, what is it exactly that you do?’

“Oh, I’m a trainee. I’m like, Inspector Lestrade’s assistant.”

“You’re training to become a police officer?”

“Well, I technically graduated from the Police Academy. Not technically, I did graduate. But I didn’t want to be just a police officer. I want to be a detective, but I have to work up the ranks, of course. But, I want to be on Lestrade’s team specifically. Spent two years as a probationary constable, and they offered me a job. Well, they offered me several jobs, I was top of the class, but I declined, said I wanted to work with Greg Lestrade and only Greg Lestrade.”

“But- where the hell did he go?” when they got outside, Sherlock Holmes was nowhere to be seen.

“He’s gone,” Sally Donovan was still standing by the bundle of police cars and yellow police tape. “He just took off. He does that.”

“Is he coming back?” John asked.

Sally shrugged, “Didn’t look like it.”

He looked humiliated again. “Um, where am I?”

“Brixton,” Abigail answered. Sally sneered at her like she had no business to speak, or rather, be there.

“... Where would I get a cab? It’s just... well, my leg…”

“You can try the main road,” Abigail smiled again, a kind, warm smile. She lifted the yellow police tape for him while he limped under it. 

“Hey!” Sally called after him. Abigail and John turned to look at her. “You’re not his friend, he doesn’t have friends. So who are you?” What a bitchy thing to say.

“I’m - I’m nobody, I only just met him,” John replied.

“Bit of advice then. Stay away from that guy.”

“Why?”

But Lestrade was coming outside, “Donovan!”

“Coming!” she answered. She started walking over to him, but yelled over her shoulder, “Stay away from Sherlock Holmes!”

John now turned to Abigail, looking utterly confused. “She doesn’t like Sherlock Holmes,” she told him and started following him towards the busy street at the end of the deserted one. “She was going on about it all yesterday, calling him a freak, a psychopath, even saying that Sherlock Holmes could be capable of murder!” She shoved her hands into her coat pockets, journal tucked under her arm. She scoffed at the last comment as if it were the most ridiculous thing she had ever heard.

“G-d help me if he is…” John said.

“Why?”

“We’re flatmates.”

“Oh! So you are friends?”

“Again, only just met him.”

Abigail nodded, “Right, right… Well, who knows. Maybe that’s just what Sherlock Holmes needs.”

“What’s that?”

“A friend,” she grinned. They had reached the end of the street by then, “It was really a pleasure meeting you, Dr. Watson.” She opened up her journal and wrote something on the corner of a page before tearing it out.

“You too, Miss Coleman.”

“Oh, please, Abigail,” she handed him the tiny piece of paper. On it was her mobile number. “Call if… well, if you need anything. Have a good night!” she turned away and started back up the street towards the crime scene. 

“Bye!” John called back. When Abigail turned back around, he had already turned the corner. 

-

“So, what did you think?” Lestrade asked as he walked up to Abigail, no longer in the blue crime scene coveralls. 

“About the crime scene? Well, it wasn’t the most macabre thing I’ve ever seen but-“ she started to answer.

“No, about Sherlock.”

“Oh! He was very… interesting, I guess the best word is, to watch. It’s very fascinating how he figured out all of those things about her simply by how wet her coat was or how shiny her ring was.”

“Did you copy down every word he said?”

Abigail nodded and showed him her notes. 

“Wow,” his eyes scanning the pages. “Didn’t know it was possible for someone to write as fast as Sherlock Holmes speaks. Yes, well, are you ready?”

“For what, sir?”

Lestrade held up a finger and pulled out his mobile and dialed a number on speed dial, “It’s Lestrade. I need a warrant for a drug search at 221b Baker Street for Sherlock Holmes. Send it over with the team.” Abigail stood there gaping at him. 

“Sir, why did you just do that?”

He smirked, “Knowing Sherlock, he will have found that damn suitcase by time the warrant goes through. And he isn’t going to exactly notify us immediately.”

“So you’re going to break in?”

“It’s not breaking in if we have a warrant.”

-

Later that night, with the proper warrant, Lestrade rang Sherlock’s doorbell at 221b. A small elderly woman answered the door and spoke in a sweet voice, like a grandmother, “Hello, how can I help you?”

“Hello, Mrs. Hudson. We have a warrant to search Sherlock Holmes’ flat,” he stepped around her, making his way up the stairs. Abigail and the rest of Lestrade’s team, including Donovan and Anderson, followed him. 

Just as Greg had suspected, the pink suitcase was sitting on the table. Lestrade sat down in one of the armchairs in front of the fireplace and began to rummage through it. The team spread throughout the flat, searching every room, every corner. 

“Oh, dear. What a mess,” the old woman brought her hand to her mouth looking around the flat.

“Mrs. Hudson?” a man called from downstairs.

“Upstairs!” she yelled back.

Sherlock Holmes and John Watson burst through the door. “What are you doing?” Sherlock asked.

Lestrade smirked, “Well, I knew you’d find the case. I’m not stupid.”

“You can’t just break into my flat!”

“You can’t withhold evidence, and I didn’t break into your flat,” Lestrade pointed at the case.

“Well, what do you call this?” Sherlock gestured around the room. 

“A drugs bust,” Greg grinned.

Sherlock looked like a guilty child that just got caught red-handed, but John burst out laughing, “Oh, come on, _seriously?_ This guy, a junkie? Have you met him?”

“John…”

“Pretty sure, you could search this flat all day, you wouldn’t find anything you could call recreational-“

Lestrade raised a brow.

“John, you probably want to shut up now…” Sherlock whispered to him.

“Yeah, but come on-“ Sherlock gave him a warning look and shook his head slightly.

“No!”

“What?”

“ _You?_ ”

“Shut up!” he turned to Lestrade as Abigail made a quick note in her journal. “I’m not your sniffer dog!”

“No! Anderson’s my sniffer dog.”

Sherlock spun around and looked in the kitchen where Anderson was rummaging through things. He gave Sherlock a wave which only further infuriated the taller man. “What’s he doing here? On a drugs bust?”

“I volunteered,” Anderson said.

“They all did. They’re not strictly speaking on the drugs squad, but they’re very keen. Except, well, Coleman, she’s new.” Abigail gave a small smile.

Sally popped out of the kitchen holding a jar, “Are these human eyes?” 

“Oh my G-d!” Abigail gasped and dropped her notebook.

“Put them back,” Sherlock told her.

“They were in the microwave!”

“It’s an experiment!”

“Keep looking, guys!” Lestrade called to his team. He turned back to Sherlock, “Or you could start helping me properly, and I’ll stand them down.”

“This is childish,” Sherlock pouted.

“I’m dealing with a child. Sherlock, this is our case! I’m letting you in, but you don’t go off on your own - clear?”

“What, so you set up a pretend drugs bust, to bully me?”

“Stops being pretend if they find anything,” Lestrade shrugged.

“I’m clean!”

“Is your flat? _All_ of it?”

Sherlock tugged up the sleeve of his shirt and revealed several nicotine patches on his forearm. “I don’t even smoke!”

Greg stood up and stood next to Sherlock and pulled up his sleeve, revealing a single patch on his arm as well. “Neither do I! So let’s work together. We’ve found Rachel.”

He now had Sherlock’s full attention, “Who is she?”

“Jennifer Wilson’s only daughter.”

“Her daughter. Why would she write her daughter’s name, why?”

Anderson appeared in the archway of the kitchen again, “Never mind that, we found the case. According to someone the murderer has the case - and here it is, in the hands of our favorite psychopath.”

Sally snorted within the kitchen and Abigail glared in their direction. 

“I’m not a psychopath, Anderson - I’m a high-functioning sociopath. Do your research!” Sherlock barked at Anderson.

Abigail took the risk of speaking up, “The suitcase is covered in muck and smells like it too, so obviously, Sherlock Holmes didn’t have it. If you would please stop accusing Mr. Holmes at every chance, maybe this case might be solved soon!” She didn’t mean for it to come out so snappy, but with just standing in the corner, watching all of the excitement before her while she remained silent, a lot of things pent up inside her.

Consequently, eyes were on her now and all rather surprised. She flashed an apologetic look at Greg, but he just grinned, telling her that it was okay. Actually, he found it quite amusing.

Sherlock gave her an inquisitive look, now that Abigail had caught his attention for the second time that night because she couldn’t keep her mouth shut. “And what might that mean?”

Abigail looked nervously around the room for someone to throw her a life-float, but they didn’t say anything. “Well… I-it means that… Well, he probably had the case. She left it with him, or forgot it, or… well, he had to get rid of it anyway, so he dumped it… Right?” All Abigail wanted to do at that moment was crawl under a rock forever. Or jump out of the window. 

Sherlock smirked and turned to Anderson, “Would you look at that, Anderson? The trainee is more competent than you.” He turned to Lestrade, “You need to bring Rachel in, you need to question her. _I_ need to question her-“

“She’s dead,” Lestrade told her. 

“Excellent! How? When? Is there a connection? There has to be!”

“I doubt it since she’s been dead for fourteen years. Technically she was never alive. Rachel was Jennifer Wilson’s stillborn daughter fourteen years ago.”

Sherlock looked taken aback and confused, "No. No, that’s not right. Why would she do that?”

“Why would she think of her daughter in her last moments. Yeah, _sociopath_ , seeing it now,” Anderson rolled his eyes. Abigail could see why Anderson annoyed Sherlock so much; he was starting to annoy her as well. 

“She didn’t think about her daughter, she scratched her name on the floor. She was dying, it took effort, it would’ve hurt - she was trying to tell us something!”

“You said the victims all took the poison themselves. Somehow he makes them take it. Maybe he ... I dunno, talks to them. Maybe he used the death of her daughter somehow…” John said.

“Oh, but that was ages ago - why would she still be upset?” John cringed at him, and standing behind Sherlock, Abigail cringed as well. Everyone else in the room was unfazed by Sherlock’s comment. “Not good?”

John shook his head, “Bit not good, yeah.”

Sherlock started pacing around the room, “Yes, but listen! If you were dying, if you’d been murdered, in your very last seconds, what would you say?”

“Please G-d let me live,” John guessed.

“Use your imagination!”

“I don’t have to.”

“Yes, but if you were clever; if you were very clever... Jennifer Wilson, running all those lovers. She was clever, and she’s telling us something!”

Mrs. Hudson, as Greg told her, ran up the stairs, “Isn’t the doorbell working? Your taxi’s here, Sherlock.”

“I didn’t order a taxi, go away,” Sherlock waved her off.

Mrs. Hudson looked around the room at all of the police officers searching the flat, “Oh dear, they’re making such a mess. What are they looking for?”

“It’s a drugs bust, Mrs. Hudson,” John told her.

“Oh, but they’re just for my hip. They’re herbal soothers,” she rubbed her hip.

“Shut up! Everybody shut up, I’m thinking, don’t move, don’t breathe, Anderson, face the other way, you’re putting me off!” Sherlock was pacing faster now. 

“What, my face is?” Anderson scoffed.

“Everybody quiet and still. Anderson, turn your back!” Lestrade ordered him.

“For G-d’s sake-“

“Your back, now, please!”

Anderson huffed and turned his back, obviously furious and embarrassed. 

Sherlock kept pacing fast and faster, clutching his head like it was going to explode, “Come on, come on!”

“What about your taxi-“

“Mrs. Hudson!” She jumped and John put an arm around her.

“Oh, she was clever. Clever, yes, I love her! She’s cleverer than you lot dead! Do you see? Do you get it? She didn’t lose her phone, she never lost it. She planted in on him. When she got out that car, she knew she was going to her death - she left the phone to lead us to her killer!”

“But how? Lestrade asked.

“What do you mean, how? Rachel, don’t you see? Rachel!! Oh, look at you lot, you’re all so vacant! What’s it like, not being me, it must be so relaxing. Rachel is not a name.”

John asked, “Then what is it?”

Sherlock sat down at the table in the sitting room and opened up his laptop, pulling up the Internet. He pointed at the suitcase, “John, the luggage label, it had an email address on it.”

John went to the case and opened the flap that covered the luggage label and read off the email address, “Jennie dot pink at mephone dot org dot uk.”

“I’ve been too slow, she didn’t have a laptop, which means did her business on her phone. So it’s a smartphone, it’s email enabled. So there’s a website for her account.” Sherlock pulled up mephone dot com, where there was a box for the username and one for the password. “The user name will be the email address -“ he typed in her email address. “- and all together now, the password is ... ?”

“Rachel,” both John and Abigail said in unison.

“So we can read her emails - so what?” Anderson was once again turned back around to face the sitting room.

“Don’t talk out loud, Anderson, you lower the IQ of the whole street,” Sherlock chided. Abigail snorted and Anderson glared at her, but she brushed it off as her clearing her throat. “We can do more than read her emails - it’s a smartphone, it’s got GPS. And if you lose it …” He clicked the “Update Location” button on the Find My MePhone page. “… You can locate it online.” The page began to load. “She’s leading us right to the man who killed her.”

“Unless he got rid of it,” Lestrade said.

John shook his head, “We know he didn’t.”

Sherlock was starting to get impatient, now shouting at the laptop, “Come on, quickly, quickly!”

“Sherlock, dear, this taxi driver!” Mrs. Hudson pointed at the door.

“Mrs. Hudson, isn’t it time for your evening soother?” Sherlock shot up from his seat and walked over to Lestrade, “Get some vehicles ready, get a helicopter, we need to move fast - that phone battery won’t last forever.” John sat down in the chair Sherlock was in and waited for the page to load.

“We’ll just have a map reference, not a name!” Lestrade said.

“It’s a start!”

“Sherlock-“ John stared at the screen. 

Sherlock ignored him, “It narrows it down from anyone in London, it’s the first proper lead we’ve had.”

“Sherlock!” John said a bit louder and finally caught not only Sherlock’s attention but everyone in the room’s attention. 

The page had loaded, now showing a map of and a red dot where the location of the phone was. Sherlock joined him in front of the laptop, crouching down, “Where is it, where, quickly!”

The two stared at the screen and John brought his finger up to the red dot and frowned, “It’s… here. It’s in 221 Baker Street.”

“But it can’t be. How can it be here? _How?_ ”

“Maybe it was in the case when you brought it back - fell out somewhere.” Lestrade shuffled through the suitcase while Abigail checked the surrounding area.

“And I didn’t notice. _Me?_ I didn’t notice.” 

“Anyway, I texted it and he phoned back,” John added.

“Guys, we’re also looking for a mobile somewhere here - belonged to the victim …” Lestrade called out.

Sherlock looked completely lost in his own thoughts while a man appeared from the stairwell behind Mrs. Hudson. He must’ve been the cabbie that was outside for Sherlock. He stared at the cabbie with narrowed, confused eyes. Abigail caught glimpse of a bright pink phone, the same pink that matched the victim’s suitcase and outfit, in the cabbie’s hand. A moment later, Sherlock’s phone beeped within his pocket. 

“Sherlock? You okay?” John asked.

“What? Yes, yes,” he pulled out his phone and stared at it as the cabbie disappeared down the stairs. 

“So how can the phone be here?”

“I don’t know…” something strange was going on.

“I’ll phone it again,” John pulled out his own mobile.

“Good idea,” he walked over to the door and grabbed his coat from the hook and put it on along with his scarf.

“Where are you going?”

“Nowhere. Fresh air, just popping out for a moment.”

“You sure you’re all right?”

“I’m fine!” Sherlock hurried down the stairs. 

John glanced around the room, wondering if anyone else had sensed something strange was going on. Abigail was the only one who mirrored his look, who looked interested in what was going on rather than looking for imaginary drugs in the flat. John went to one window that overlooked Baker Street and Abigail went to the other and watched as Sherlock and the cabbie talked for a few minutes before Sherlock actually got into the cab.

John turned away from the window, “He just got in a cab. Sherlock, he just drove off in a cab!”

Sally glanced at him and shrugged, “I told you. He does that.” She turned to Lestrade, "He bloody left. Again. We’re wasting our time!”

“Something obviously isn’t right,” Abigail said.

John dialed his phone, “I’m phoning the phone, it’s ringing out.”

“If it’s ringing, it’s not here,” Lestrade brought his hands up in defeat.

“Try the search again,” Abigail pointed to the laptop, and John refreshed the page to update its location. 

Sally stepped into the sitting room, “Does it matter? Does any of it?” She leaned closer to Lestrade, “He’s just a lunatic, and he’ll always let you down. And you’re wasting your time. All our time.”

Lestrade sighed, “Okay, everyone - we’re done here…” The police officers began to pack it up and exit the flat. 

When everyone had left, only Greg, John, and Abigail stood in the flat. “Why did he do that? Why did he have to leave?” Lestrade asked John.

“You know him better than I do,” John was still waiting for the phone’s location to be updated.

“I’ve known him five years, and no I don’t.”

“Why do you put up with him?”

“Because I’m bloody desperate, that’s why!” Greg turned to leave, but hesitated and turned back to John, “Because Sherlock Holmes is a great man. And I think, one day, if we’re very, very lucky he might even be a good one.” He left, now leaving Abigail with John.

“I’ll see you later, Dr. Watson.”

-

Thirty minutes later, Abigail and Greg were in his office, just about to finally go home, until Greg’s desk phone rang. He was outside of his office, at Sally’s desk, talking to her. Abigail apprehensively picked up the phone, “Detective Inspector Lestrade’s office, this is Abigail Coleman.”

“Abigail?”

“Dr. Watson? Are you okay?”

“Where’s Lestrade? I need to speak to him, it’s important, it’s an emergency!”

“Hold on,” she set the phone down on the desk and ran out into the office space. “Sir! John Watson is on the phone!”

Lestrade looked exasperated, “What now?”

“He says it’s an emergency, sir!”

Lestrade hustled to his office and picked up the phone, “Hello?… He’s where?… And he’s been there for a while?… All right, we’ll meet you there.” He hung up and grabbed his coat, “Looks like we’re not done yet!” 

-

It was the second corpse Abigail had seen that day when they rolled the cab driver out on a gurney, covered by a white sheet. He had been shot, they didn’t know by who, and Sherlock Holmes wouldn’t tell them.

He was sitting on the ledge of the ambulance, alone. Abigail took the opportunity when Greg was speaking with the coroner, to sneak away and walk over to the consultant detective. 

“Hello,” she said walking up to him. He had a styrofoam cup of water in his hands and an orange blanket next to him. “Are you doing all right?”

Sherlock looked up at her with narrowed eyes and looked her up and down. 

“I’m Abigail Coleman I’m-“

“You’re a Scotland Yard trainee fresh out of the Academy, approximately in your early twenties, but you dress and act much older than you are to make people take you more seriously but you have poor posture and hunch your shoulders and make yourself look smaller which means you have absolutely no self-confidence not to mention you wear makeup especially for a confidence boost and judging by the heavier makeup on your cheeks and under your eyes, you hate your freckles,” he rambled off to her without skipping a beat and, of course, not showing any emotion. 

Abigail gaped at him, _How could he have possibly known all of those things just by looking at me?_ After a few seconds of silence, Sherlock expected her to slap him or tell him off, as most people did when he dissected them like that. But instead, she smiled. It wasn’t a malicious smile and she wasn’t laughing at him; it was bright and soft. “Absolutely brilliant,” she looked at him the same way John had looked: awestruck. “You’re absolutely brilliant, Sherlock Holmes. Not a freak, not a psychopath, just. bloody. brilliant.” She grabbed the blanket and draped it over his shoulders. He opened his mouth to say something, but Lestrade came up behind Abigail.

Instead, Sherlock turned his attention to the Detective Inspector, “Why do I have this blanket? They keep putting a blanket on me.”

“It’s for shock.”

“I’m not in shock!”

“Yeah, but some of the guys want to take photographs,” he smirked. “Thanks, Coleman.” Sherlock sent her a glare; he had been betrayed.

“So, the shooter. No sign of him?” he looked over at the open window of the room the cabbie had been shot in.

“Cleared off by the time we got here. A guy like that would’ve had enemies, I suppose. One of them could’ve been following him. But we’ve got nothing to go on …"

“Oh, I wouldn’t say that…”

Lestrade rolled his eyes, knowing, of course, Sherlock would have a lead. He nudged Abigail, who took out her journal and pen, hopefully for the last time that night. Her hand had really begun to hurt. “Okay, gimme!”

“The bullet they just dug out the wall was from a handgun. A kill shot over that distance from that kind of weapon - that’s a crack shot you’re looking for. But not just a marksmen, a fighter - his hand couldn’t have shaken at all, so clearly he’s acclimatized to violence. He didn’t fire ‘til I was in immediate danger, though. So, strong moral principles. You’re looking for a man probably with a history of military service and nerves of steel -“ Abigail stopped writing just as he had broke off and was now staring in the other direction. She followed his line of sight and saw John standing there, hands behind his back, smirking at Sherlock. "Actually, you know what - ignore me.”

“Sorry?” both Lestrade and Abigail asked.

“Ignore all that. It’s the shock talking!” he stood up, the orange blanket still around him, and began walking over towards John.

“Where are you going?” Greg asked.

“Just need to ... discuss the rent,” he lied. 

“Still got questions for you.”

“What, now? I’m in shock. Look, I’ve got a blanket!” he flapped it about.

“Sherlock…”

“And I did just catch a serial killer for you. More or less.”

“... Okay. We’ll pull you in tomorrow - off you go,” Lestrade waved him off.

Sherlock grinned and took off the blanket and tossed onto Abigail’s head and hurried off to John. She giggled and took it off and threw it back into the ambulance. 

“Never a dull moment with that one,” Lestrade said.

“I like him,” she grinned up at him. “He’s odd and brilliant and I like him.”

Another police officer had walked up to Lestrade and began talking to him while Abigail secretly watched the detective and doctor talk. They started giggling, but John told them to quit it. She couldn’t quite hear them or read their lips very well, but she could see the looks they exchanged. Before her, she witnessed the start of a lifelong friendship, although, she swore that Sherlock looked at John in a slightly different way. 

They began walking towards the gates while another man, tall and well-dressed, and a woman preoccupied on her mobile walked and met them in the middle. She watched as the man and Sherlock talked, or maybe, bantered, while John looked between them utterly confused. They continued to speak for a few minutes before Sherlock walked away, John and the other man exchanged a few words, then he awkwardly spoke to the woman who in return, looked entirely disinterested, and then he hurried off to join Sherlock. The man watched the partners leave, then he turned to the jumble of police officers and medics engulfed in yellow tape and flashing lights.

He was gazing in Abigail’s direction. After a moment of shock and embarrassment, she realized he wasn’t looking at her at all, but rather looking past her. His line of sight landed directly on Greg Lestrade, who was still talking to the policeman. _I’ll make a few deductions myself,_ Abigail thought. She stepped forward a bit to get a closer look at the man, but her movement caught his attention and she froze. Quickly she turned back to Lestrade and tugged at his sleeve, rather childlike, “Sir?” she nudged her head in the other man’s direction. 

Lestrade looked and met eyes with the other man and they both smiled slightly at one another. _Oh, they like each other,_ Abigail smirked. When the man finally got in his fancy car and drove off, she turned to the Detective Inspector, “Who was that, sir?”

“Mycroft Holmes. He’s Sherlock’s older brother.”

“Is he a friend of your’s too?”

He ignored her question and began walking to his own car, “I’ll take you home.”

“Oh, you don’t need to do that, sir. It’s not in the greatest part of the city.”

“That’s _why_ I’ll drive you home. Now shut up and hop in, Coleman,” he got in the driver’s seat.

“Yes, sir,” she quickly got into the passenger’s side. As they pulled away from the scene, Abigail flipped through her notes. She couldn’t believe how much she had gotten just from one day. “Today was fun,” she grinned.

“Fun?”

“Yeah, we should do it again sometime,” she turned to her superior and smiled widely, while he just smirked and shook his head. He knew he’d have his hands full with this one, added on to the load Sherlock Holmes brought him. He was getting too old for this.


	2. The One Where Abbie Meets the Iceman

Abigail Coleman was still working at New Scotland Yard as a trainee, although she didn’t mind so long as she got to keep working with Gregory Lestrade, Sherlock Holmes, and John Watson. 

She and John started talking more and spending time together. It started when he asked her to see her notes on her first case. She brought them to 221b Baker Street one Saturday afternoon since she didn’t have work until that evening.

Mrs. Hudson answered the door and was surprised to see her, “Oh, what did Sherlock do now?”

“Hm? Oh, no, I’m not here on work. Just… here as me, I suppose,” she smiled. 

Mrs. Hudson returned the smile, “Right, come in, dear.” She stepped aside and Abigail walked in. “I’m sorry I didn’t catch your name last time you were here.”

“Abigail. Abigail Coleman. Pleasure to meet you.”

“You too, dear. The boys are right upstairs, I’ll put on a pot of tea.”

“Thank you, Mrs. Hudson,” she walked up the stairs and the noise of glass clinking and pacing about continued to get louder. Sherlock obviously busy in the kitchen and John preoccupied reading the paper, Abigail knocked on the open door and cleared her throat. She only got John’s attention, who put down the paper and smiled at her, “Hello, Abigail.”

“Hi, John. And it’s Abbie, remember?” she looked much different than she did in her work clothes. She usually dressed in a way to look older and mature, but today she looked much her young age of twenty. She was wearing dark skinny jeans and black sneakers. She wore a Beatles _Abbey Road_ t-shirt and her long overcoat. She had braided her long brown hair over her shoulder.

“Abbey Road like Abbie,” John commented.

“My dad used to call me Abbey Road,” she smirked. “It was his favorite album.”

“Why is there talking?” Sherlock popped out of the kitchen, wearing his dressing gown, safety goggles, and holding a blowtorch. 

“Hello to you too, Sherlock,” she beamed at him. 

“Oh. Hello,” and that was the end of that conversation, as he went back to whatever he was doing in the kitchen. It wasn’t much of a kitchen at all, more like a chemistry lab that was filled with beakers and graduated cylinders and burners. 

John and Abbie sat down at the table in the sitting room and John opened his laptop. She handed him her journal, “Sorry, everything was written so quickly, it doesn’t even look like words.”

John smirked, “I’m a doctor, I’ve read worse.”

“Oh, so you’re like a medical doctor.”

“An army doctor. I was in Afghanistan until I got shot.”

“In the leg?”

“No, in the shoulder.”

“The limp was psychosomatic!” Sherlock called from the kitchen; apparently, he was eavesdropping.

“Ah, okay,” Abbie nodded. Something out of the corner of her eye caught her attention, “Is that a human skull?” she asked about the skull sitting on the mantle.

“Obviously,” Sherlock replied.

“Yes, but is it real?”

“He’s my friend,” he told her, not exactly answering her question.

“He calls him Billy,” John whispered to her. She just nodded, eyes wide in confusion.

Mrs. Hudson came up the stairs holding a tea tray, “Here you are, dears.” She set it down on the table next to Abbie. “What’s this?” she looked over Abbie’s shoulder at her open journal.

“Oh, I take notes from cases and John is using them for… John, what _do_ you need them for?” 

“I’m writing a blog.”

“About?” she and Mrs. Hudson asked.

“The cases Sherlock and I are given.”

“You are?” Sherlock poked his head out of the kitchen once more. “Who on Earth would want to read that?”

“Plenty of people would!” 

“I would,” Abbie chimed in. “I bet it’d be real interesting.”

John smiled, “See, Sherlock? People _would_ find it interesting. Unlike your blog about all the different types of tobacco.”

“I also found that interesting,” Abbie said. 

Sherlock gave a triumphant smirk and went back to making a mess in the kitchen. 

She took a sip of her tea, “So is this what you do when Greg doesn’t call you in? Sit here and… do whatever it is Sherlock is doing?”

John shook his head, “We take clients on our own.”

“Hm. Well, I wish you the best of luck then,” she smiled and looked at the clock. “I should get going, I like to get there early.” 

John took a final once-over of Abbie’s notebook before handing it back to her, “Thank you again, Abbie.”

“Anytime! It was nice meeting you, Mrs. Hudson. Sherlock, don’t blow up the place!” the detective didn’t hear a word she said. Abbie just shook her head and then placed her hand on John’s arm, “I’ll see you later, John.” She gave a final wave to Mrs. Hudson, and let herself out.

-

Abbie had been tasked with the very exciting and very riveting challenge of… organizing Detective Inspector Lestrade’s office. She groaned as she slammed shut the last filing cabinet that she had organized and finally allowed herself to take a break and plop into Greg’s desk chairs. It was one of those ones with armrests and lumbar support and, best of all, wheels and a spinning seat. He was out on his break, probably having his lunch and having a smoke, so Abbie leaned her head back and used her toes to pivot herself back and forth. With her eyes closed, she would have probably dozed off if it wasn’t for Greg’s desk phone ringing. She jumped to attention and picked it up, “Hello, Detective Inspector Lestrade’s office.”

“Who the hell is this?” the voice on the other side asked.

“Abigail Coleman, Lestrade’s assistant.”

The voice grunted, “Where the hell is Lestrade then?”

“He’s on his break, sir. Can I take a message?” she balanced the phone between her ear and her shoulder and reached for a pen and the pad of sticky notes on his desk.

“Just tell Lestrade he’d better call me back,” and the voice hung up. Abbie didn’t get a name but she recorded the call-back number and tore off the sticky note. She walked into the bullpen and over to Sally Donovan’s desk.

“Where can I find Detective Lestrade?”

“Why?”

“I have a message for him” Abbie waved the note that was sticking to her pointer and middle fingers.

“The garage. I’ll take it to him,” Donovan tried to reach for it but Abbie pulled her hand back.

“No, I’ll go take it to him.” There was a stairwell that led straight into the garage from the office, which was on the fourth floor. When Abbie finally got to the garage and found her boss Greg wrapped in the arms of Sherlock Holmes’ older brother Mycroft, snogging against Greg’s car. She turned around to make a hasty exit back upstairs but she wasn’t quick enough to catch the metal door before it slammed shut, catching the attention of the two men. They had pulled themselves from one another and froze, their eyes on Abbie and her eyes on her extended hand reaching out for the door handle. 

“Coleman,” Greg grunted. “What the hell is it?”

She turned to him with her hands behind her back and eyes on the ground to avoid the two men’s glares and held up the tiny slip of paper between her middle and pointer fingers, “A message, sir. It sounded important.”

Greg sighed and held out his hand. Abbie rushed over and handed it to him, shooting glances between Greg and Mycroft.

Mycroft was slowly looking her up and down as if to analyze her. Abbie gulped and tried her best to avert his gaze. She handed the note to Greg and started back away, before she turned on her heel and scurried back into the stairwell, the metal door once again slamming shut and creating an echo in the carpark. 

She leaned up against the cold, cinder block wall and pressed her hand to her chest and took in a deep breath. Her heart was beating out of her chest and she was shaking. She couldn’t move so she just stood there, trying to regulate her breathing and mumbling, “Oh my G-d,” over and over again. She screwed her eyes shut and a few minutes later, she heard a car door close and the metal door open and slam shut for the final time. Abbie’s eyes shot open to see Greg.

“I’m sorry,” her voice came out sounding weak and immediately regretted saying anything at all. Greg just gave her a quizzical look, but she continued on. “Sally told me this was where you took your breaks and I only came down to give you the message because it sounded important and I promise I won’t tell anyone.”

Greg sighed. “C’mon.” He jerked his head towards the stairs and stuck his hands in his coat pockets and walked back up to his office. Abbie followed, anxious if she was going to get chewed out by her not-yet-boss. Abbie didn’t dare say a word. When they passed Donovan’s desk, she shot Abbie a look, but Abbie just turned away. 

Greg quickly returned the phone call— something about paperwork— and said, “Grab your coat, Coleman.” 

“Y-yes, sir.” She pulled her coat off of the back of her chair and put it on while following Greg back out of his office, down the stairwell to the carpark, and over to his car. Abbie didn’t recall any calls coming in about any crimes, but she got in the car nonetheless.

They drove in silence, and all Abbie could think was, “Oh my god, my ass is grass,” but changed when they pulled into the Tesco lot and parked. 

“Uh, sir?” She asked.

“Yeah?” 

“What are we doing here?”

“Errands. Why else would we be here?” Greg got out of the car, leaving Abbie to remain.

“Of course. Errands. Why else?” She said aloud and followed her boss. She watched Greg pull out his phone and read a text and grin widely. 

“Coleman, what are you doing tonight?” He began texting a response. 

“What? Oh, uh, nothing?” She crossed her arms across her middle. She thought about what Sherlock had said, about how she tries to make herself smaller. But right then, she couldn’t be small enough. 

“Come for dinner tonight, then.” It wasn’t really a question, but a command. Abbie was going over whether she could make up an excuse or not. “I’ll cook.” He grabbed a trolly. 

“You can cook?” She asked. 

“What do you mean, ‘can I cook?’” He scoffed.

Abbie shrugged, “All I’ve ever seen you eat is takeout and doughnuts.”

“Well,” he said as he turned down the produce aisle, “work life and home life are two completely different things.”

“I suppose so,” she said and followed him. She had so many questions to ask him but didn’t know if they were appropriate or not. “So how long have you been with Mycroft Holmes?”

Greg put more groceries into his cart and smirked, “Knew you’d be asking sooner or later.”

“I’m sorry, it’s just-“

“We don’t seem like a couple?”

“Well, not a couple I’d expect.” While Greg was stopped, she hopped up on the front of the cart as a child would. “I’ll tell you my story if you tell me yours?” 

He sighed, “Fine. We were in secondary school. I didn’t know he was Mycroft Holmes… Well, I knew his name. But, never in a million years would I have thought that the quiet genius who ate lunch in the library would grow up to have a high position in the British Government. Actually, yes, that makes complete sense. We didn’t talk in school.”

“I would’ve thought Mycroft went to some fancy prep school.”

“Actually, my mum made _me_ go to the fancy prep school. She thought if I went there, it’d keep me out of trouble. After we graduated, I never saw Mycroft again until Sherlock started sticking his nose into Scotland Yard’s business.”

Greg pushed the cart with Abbie still hanging on up and down the aisles. “So what happened?”

“Well, I was married by then… and to a woman nonetheless. It was hard, though, not to want to be with him. Our relationship was completely professional. He would occasionally arrange to meet over drinks, but it was really just to keep tabs on Sherlock. I don't know if you could tell, but Mycroft and Sherlock's relationship is a bit of a love/hate ordeal. Mycroft really does love his brother, and I think deep down Sherlock loves him too, but there's too much of a sibling rivalry thing going on that they have yet to grow out of.”

“And what finally made you do it? Get together, I mean.” It had felt like she was starting to pry too much, but she figured this was her only chance to get to know Greg.

“I found out Melanie was having an affair. Actually, it was _Sherlock_ who told me Melanie was having an affair.” He huffed and shook his head. “The bastard, I could have killed him. But, I guess in a way, that was the final shove for me to end up at Mycroft’s doorstep that very night.”

“How romantic,” Abbie smirked. “So, Sherlock doesn’t know?”

“I’m sure he does— you can’t keep secrets from him— however, he doesn’t say anything. He is rather oblivious when it comes to humane things like emotions or relationships.”

“Well, my lips are sealed.”

Greg paid and loaded the bags into the boot of his car. “So, I told you my story, now you tell me yours.”

Abbie rolled her eyes, “Oh, my story is not as dramatic as yours, believe me. It’s really rather tragic.”

“Do tell.”

She sighed and focused her attention on the signs on the side of the road. “My father died in a drunk driving accident when I was nine, my sister, Lucy, was thirteen. He wasn’t the drunk one, and we were in the back seat. My mother was at home with my younger brother Jude; he was six. Jude died when he was eight from hitting his head on a rock in a nearby stream and then drowned. My mother, my sister and I moved to London and a year later, my mother committed suicide, and we had to go live with our aunt until we graduated. Now Lucy and I don’t really talk. She’s got a husband and kids of her own and I live with my boyfriend Quincy.” She turned and looked at Greg, “And that is the tragic tale of Abigail Coleman.”

“I’m sorry, Abigail.” It wasn’t the sympathy that shocked her, but rather the fact that it was the first time he’d called her by her name, and not by her last name.

She smiled slightly to herself and took the opportunity to change the subject when Greg pulled up to a townhouse in central London. “This yours?” Before Greg could answer, she got out and opened the boot, and started loading bags on her wrist.

“I don’t know why the fact I have a life outside of work surprises you,” Greg said and shut his car door. 

“It’s like imagining your teachers’ life in elementary school. You think all they do is teach and live at school and don’t have lives. Can’t imagine what you think I do with my day when I’m not following you around all day.”

Greg unlocked the door and let them in. The house was practically spotless, nothing like Abigail would have expected from a busy detective living alone. But then again, Greg probably wasn’t alone here in the house for the most part, or maybe he stayed at Mycroft’s. “Putting your nose in other’s peoples’ business, I imagine.”

She raised a brow and set the bags down on the counter and helped Greg unpack. “You wouldn’t be wrong.” The house was without much decoration. In the sitting room, a worn-in-looking sofa and a matching armchair paired with a ring-stained coffee table and a television situated on top of a smaller table. She hadn’t seen Greg’s bedroom— didn’t plan on it— but she imagined it was just as plain. There were no photographs, no frames. Though, she had never noticed any photos on Greg’s desk, either, whereas most others’ were decorated with family photos. But none for Greg. 

It was rather sad when Abbie thought about it. His wife cheated on him, and while he got back together with Mycroft, they had to keep it a secret. He couldn’t have photos of him and Mycroft on his desk at work like everyone else. He couldn’t brag about Mycroft to his friends. 

The only place in the house that looked like it had character was the kitchen. It was certainly the brightest room and the most lived-in. Greg obviously had a love for cooking. There were plants in the window sills, all different types of herbs that he kept on hand for meals.

Greg was pulling all of the ingredients together when he stopped abruptly, “Abbie, Lucy, and Jude… Like The Beatles?”

She grinned, “Exactly. My father loved The Beatles and _Abbey Road_ was his favorite album.”

“He had good taste, then. Your siblings, though, were named after songs, and you an album.”

“Well, there’s Prudence, Eleanor, Penny, Michelle, Anna…” Abbie could go on and on listing all of the other names from Beatles songs. “Actually, I’m Abigail Prudence and my sister is Lucille Penny.”

Greg chuckled, “And you look like none of those. You’re definitely an Abbie.”

“I was almost just ‘Abbey.’ My mother wanted it to be Abigail, so I guess it was an okay compromise.” She giggled, “Please never tell anyone my middle name. It really is awful.”

“I promise.” He grinned. “Do you know how to cook?”

“Nope. Well, I can cook like, mac&cheese and cereal.”

Greg just rolled his eyes, “That’s not cooking. Dear Lord, how have you survived?”

“On mac&cheese and cereal, _duh_.” 

“Well,” he set out some potatoes, “You’re at least going to learn something today. Start chopping.”

“Yessir.” They made small talk while they prepared dinner. Abbie did most of the prep, like peeling and chopping up potatoes and cutting the fat off of the chicken breasts, while Greg did most of the cooking. He cooked the chicken in a pan with olive oil, garlic, lemon juice, salt, pepper, and some freshly picked thyme from his miniature herb garden sitting on the window sill. 

Greg wrapped the potatoes along with asparagus in tin foil with garlic and oil and put it in the oven. 

“Do you have kids? With Melanie, I mean?” Abbie asked.

“Nope. We were still relatively young. Maybe if she didn’t have an affair, we would have eventually.” He didn’t sound bitter about it. “Honestly, it’s exhausting enough keeping tabs on Sherlock and making sure he’s not getting into trouble. I suppose now he has someone to do that for him, but now I’ve got you to make sure you don’t end up doing something stupid.” 

Greg was smirking, not that Abbie could tell. She had focused on the gray and white tile of the backsplash and let her vision go out of focus, hands playing with the hem of her shirt as she fought not to tear up and hug her boss, because when was the last time someone wanted to make sure she wouldn’t do something stupid? _Oh, if he only knew._

-

Mycroft Holmes was about to finish up for the day and make his way over to Gregory’s when a file he had requested plopped on his desk. He still had an hour before he had to be at Gregory’s, a quick skim-over wouldn’t take too long. 

The file had taken a bit longer than he had wanted to be compiled to his satisfaction. It was his own fault, he supposed. He had been the one to request that as many photos be taken before he left for Gregory’s for the day. 

The file on his desk was on one Abigail Prudence Coleman, age twenty, born on the third of May. Graduated in the top 10% of her secondary school, graduated in the top 5% of the Police Academy. In it was anything Mycroft would ever need to know about her. He knew all about her family. He knew all about her boyfriend Quincy, although, Mycroft personally thought she could do better. 

The latest photographs of her followed her around town during her jog just that morning before work. He had known all along Gregory’s plan to invite her to dinner that evening, it’s just her catching them in the car park was unexpected. So, in a last-ditch effort to find out more about her, he had her followed. All that he came up with was that she stopped to pet every. Single. Dog. On her run.

Of course, Mycroft was only doing this as a precaution. He had done the same when John Watson came into Sherlock’s life. If anyone was going to be working so closely with Gregory, he’d ought to know about them. And with the resources at his disposal, why not?

Gregory had told him about the young girl, fresh out of the Academy, who kept coming to Scotland Yard, insisting that Detective Inspector Gregory Lestrade take her on. 

“Why though?” Mycroft has asked. 

Greg chuckled, “Because she really wants this job. You can see it in her eyes, how much she wants it. I’ll give her the job, I just want to see how determined she is.”

“Best not to just throw jobs at people, Gregory.”

“Eh, fine. I’ll give her a temporary position and see how that works out. I’m tellin’ you though, Myc, this kid could be something.”

And so Mycroft requested her file that evening. He could have just read her file immediately, sure, but he wanted to get a full scope. Since she’s started acting as Gregory’s assistant, he’s had her followed and photographed. Only when she was out in public— Mycroft Holmes was no creep. 

He had grown even warier of the girl when she had caught them that afternoon. However, the world had yet to collapse out from under him with the leakage of his and Gregory’s relationship, so either Gregory had bought her silence, or she really was one of the last good-hearted people in this world. 

At least, she had made Gregory’s work stories more interesting. Unless he was on a case with Sherlock, the stuff Gregory came home with rather out Mycroft to sleep. Though, he never told him this and pretended to diligently listen. She disliked Sergeant Donovan, who Mycroft didn’t care for either. He hadn’t heard any complaints about her from Sherlock, which was surprising. Though, he wasn’t quite sure Sherlock even knew the girl’s name. She amused Gregory, with her thorough note-taking and eagerness to impress Gregory. The most amusing thing of all was that she already _had_. 

“She’s a sweet kid, Abbie.” Gregory referred for her as Abbie at home, but only Coleman at work. “She’s got what it takes to go far. You’d like her, Myc.”

Mycroft had just nodded and hummed, not really paying much attention. 

“She can’t do the deducing-thing like you or Sherlock, but she’s clever enough. She catches on quick. She writes everything everyone says in this little notebook of hers and she just absorbs everything like a sponge. I swear she can see things differently. Maybe not like you and Sherlock, but her memory is insane and she sees patterns in things.”

“You know, Gregory, talking her up isn’t going to sway my opinion of her,” he said.

“I know. Just, please don’t do that thing when you finally meet her?”

Mycroft shut the book he was reading and gave Gregory his full attention now. “What thing? I don’t do a thing.”

“You _do_ do a thing. That thing where you take one look at a person and somehow know what they ate for dinner the previous night. _That_ thing! Don’t do it. Not to her.”

-

Mycroft, thankfully, kept his word. At least, on the outside he kept it. She sat quietly and was extremely polite when she greeted Mycroft when he finally arrived. She apologized for their earlier run-in. She was shy and timid around Mycroft, much to Gregory’s surprise. He had honestly expected her to be, well, herself. Never shutting up once you got her started. And then…

“So, how did the photos come out, Mr. Holmes?” She asked nonchalantly, resulting in a very surprised Mycroft and a very confused Gregory.

“Pardon?” Mycroft asked, trying to sound dumb. It didn’t work. Mycroft could never play dumb.

“What photos?” Gregory looked between the two of them.

“The photos of me on my jog this morning. I thought I was being followed, but then I saw the black car, and I realized it must be something Mycroft was doing.”

Gregory gaped at Mycroft, “Seriously, Mycroft?”

“It wasn’t me! I had someone else do it!” He defended himself.

“And that’s supposed to make it any better?”

“I really don’t care,” Abbie shrugged. “I thought it was rather funny. And I made sure to take the long route today so your cameraman could get a ton of good shots.” 

“And pet every dog in London, apparently,” Mycroft noted.

“They were cute!” 

Mycroft narrowed his eyes, “Who exactly _are_ you?” 

Abbie’s wide grin disappeared as she took on a more serious— if not a bit smug— tone. “I believe you know everything about me, Mr. Holmes.”

“Do I?” He knew that she was an orphan who lived with her boyfriend. He knew she grew up in Derry, Northern Ireland— the Catholic side— and went to an all-girls Catholic school. He knew her younger brother had died in a stream that was close to her house, but no one had noticed until it was too late. He knew that her mother had moved her and her older sister to London when she was twelve; a better job, a better town, a better school, a better life. He knew that not a year later, she and her sister had to move in with her aunt because her mother had committed suicide. He knew she was a track and field star in and went to a Co-Ed prep school in London. He knew that she did well in the police academy. He knew that her sister had a husband, three children. He knew just about everything that was made public about her. All of the facts, but none of the emotion.

“Well, you don’t know my favorite color, my favorite flower, or what my favorite candy is.” She shrugged. 

“What _is_ your favorite candy?” Greg asked. 

“Maltesers.” Abbie grinned again. Quickly, Mycroft deduced that she obviously cared about her smile— she had braces once and used whitening strips often. 

“Oh, for crying out loud,” Mycroft groaned. “No, Miss Coleman, _why_ are you doing this? With Scotland Yard?”

_What a loaded question,_ Abbie wanted to say. She felt like she was being questioned by a girl’s father about what her intentions were with his daughter. She glanced at Greg next to her, who gave her a sympathetic smile in return. Obviously, they both knew to some extent that Mycroft would be interrogating her, and at least it hadn’t turned bad. Yet. He just kept hoping that Mycroft would read the room and refrain from asking her about her family. 

After a moment, Abbie finally answered. “I’m smart, Mr. Holmes, but I’m not brilliant. And I want to be brilliant. So I’m surrounding myself with brilliant people/”

If she wasn’t paying close attention, she would have missed the slight upturn of Mycroft’s lips, satisfied by her answer. _I got Mycroft Holmes to smirk. Bloody hell, I got Mycroft Holmes to smirk!_

“And it’s Mycroft if that’s alright with you?”

“Only if you call me Abbie,” she grinned, but inside, she was practically bouncing off the walls, made even worse by Greg’s proud smirk next to her. 

“Abigail, then.”

She shrugged, “Close enough.”

-

Dinner carried on without further interrogations. Abbie noticed that neither of them really talked about their day at work beyond “good” or “exhausting.” All Abbie knew about Mycroft’s work was that he had a high position in the government and had a significant amount of power. In reality, he probably sat behind a desk all day in some bureaucratic position. But Abbie wanted to imagine he was once a secret spy, like in James Bond with smart suits, fast cars, and lots of explosions. But in order to protect himself and his relationships, he decided to retire the position he currently holds. Abbie had to bite her tongue to keep from laughing. 

When dinner was over, Abbie offered to clean up. Well, argue with Greg until she finally said, “Shut up, Greg! You cooked, so I clean!”

Greg just looked at Mycroft, who shrugged and said, “She does have a point.” He got up to help her.

“Myc, you _never_ clean.”

“You are correct, Gregory, but I believe offering to help clean is code for ‘we’re going to talk about you in private.’”

Abbie washed while Mycroft dried and Greg took the hint that he should vacate himself from the kitchen area completely, so he made do with sitting on the sofa and watched as the two whispered amongst themselves. _I created this,_ he thought to himself. _This is my grave and I dug it._

“I really appreciate you not kidnapping me like John, by the way,” Abbie said to Mycroft as she handed him a plate.

“I saw how that might not only be inappropriate but also Gregory might _actually_ kill me.” From John’s description of Mycroft, Abbie had expected someone cold and quite possibly cruel. But now, she was realizing that was perhaps a facade. Greg loved him, so he couldn’t be an _awful_ person. A politician, that much about him was evident, but he was also socially awkward when it came to personal conversation. Not that Abbie could share this information with John, of course, because that would lead to questions about where Abbie had met him and she wasn’t prepared to out anyone. 

“He’s very impressed with you, you know,” Mycroft added, and Abbie felt her cheeks darken. “He’s never brought coworkers home, nonetheless to meet me.”

“I don’t think people at work know. Though I caught him smiling at a framed photo he keeps in his drawer at his desk, and when I walked in one time, he hid it away quickly. I thought it was a dirty photo— or it still might be— I don’t know, that’s your business.”

Mycroft couldn’t help the amused look on his face. He understood now what Gregory meant when he said she didn’t stop talking. But surprisingly, he didn’t find it annoying as he usually would have. 

“I don’t go snooping around other people’s lives, unlike some people.” She gave him a pointed look as she handed him a glass, but he could hear the teasing tone in her voice. 

“Better to be safe than sorry, as they say, Abigail.”

“What exactly _was_ in my file, anyway?” She imagined it was much more in-depth than a police record. There was probably stuff in there about the accident, about her family, about all of the times she got in trouble at school.

“Everything except apparently the important things.” He said, alluding to their earlier conversation. “What _is_ your favorite color?”

Abbie grinned. “It’s yellow.”

“And your favorite flower?”

“Wildflowers.”

“I don’t believe wildflowers are a type.”

“They are. Put _that_ in your file.” She glanced over her shoulder to make sure Greg was still in the sitting room watching TV and not eavesdropping. “You asked why Scotland Yard, why Greg…” She turned back to Mycroft, the dishes finished being washed and dried. 

“My mum, my sister, and I moved to London when I was twelve, right after my brother died. And then my mum took her life a year later. My sister found her that morning. When the police came, one went with my sister and Greg took me. He tried to calm me down, but obviously, nothing was working. But he stayed until we got to NSY and even stayed probably much later than he needed until my aunt could finally take us home.” She swallowed the lump in her throat. _Do not cry, Abigail._

“That’s when I decided I wanted to be a detective, and I guess I always felt like I owed a lot of who I am today to him. He doesn’t remember, so don’t tell him any of this, okay?”

Mycroft looked as if he didn’t know what to say. _Why would someone he just met a few hours prior share something so personal with him?_ He simply nodded, agreeing not to share anything with Gregory. 

“Great.” She smiled again as if she hadn’t just recalled her most painful memory. 

-

The night ended with the three of them talking about any topic under the sun in the sitting room. Time flew by, but every time Greg would offer to take Abbie home, Mycroft noticed panic flash across her face before she changed the subject, even going so far as to ask Greg about football, something she knew absolutely nothing about. Mycroft couldn’t help but feel something was off.

Finally, she had drifted off on the other side of the sofa. “I’d move her to the guest bedroom, but I don’t want her to freak out in the morning.” He grabbed an extra blanket from the closet and draped it on her.

“You’re just letting her be?”

Greg shrugged as he carefully straightened her out so that her neck and legs wouldn’t cramp up. “She and I have work tomorrow anyway. Is that okay with you?”

Mycroft shrugged it off. He still had a strange feeling. He didn’t think Abigail would do anything in the night. He was more concerned about her flashes of panic. _Why?_

Greg grinned. “See, I told you you would like her.”

As Mycroft lay in bed recalling the evening’s events, it finally dawned on him. Abigail didn’t want to go home, but why?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Come hang out with me on [Twitter](http://www.twitter.com/EmilieCrossan1) @EmilieCrossan1


	3. The One With the Circus

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter follows the events of 'The Blind Banker,' but not in its entirety. As you will have noticed, most of this fic is through Abbie's POV, which is also altered by her memory loss. Luckily, this gives us a new perspective, and a lot of new scenes with different characters.

The sound of footsteps and laughter pierced the silence in 221b Baker Street, annoying Sherlock. John entered the flat first, carrying the grocery bags he had gone back for, and following him was the young Scotland Yard trainee, just coming back from a run. Sherlock made a show of rolling his eyes, knowing John must have run into her and saw her wearing those running tights.

“Look who I ran into,” John said as he plopped the groceries on the counter.

Sherlock just made a noncommittal noise.

“Hi, Sherlock.” Abbie flashed him a smile. “John was just telling me about his row this morning.” She took her phone out of her pocket and went to set it down, but it completely missed. As she scooped to pick it up, she caught sight of the blade Sherlock had kicked underneath his chair. She stood, giving him an amused look. “And what row did _you_ get into this morning, Sherlock?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he smirked.

“Is that my computer?” John asked from the kitchen.

“Of course,” Sherlock answered.

John looked taken aback. “What?”

“Mine is in the bedroom.”

Abbie glanced down the hall at Sherlock’s bedroom door, and for only a second thought too much into the fact that Sherlock referred to it as _the_ bedroom and not _his_ bedroom.

“And you couldn’t be bothered to get up,” John didn’t so much as ask, but accuse. “It’s password protected.”

“In a matter of speaking,” Sherlock said. “Took me less than a minute to guess yours. Not exactly Fort Knox.”

“You guessed my password?”

“There are forty-three.”

“What?”

“Types of password. That people like you commonly use.”

“What does that mean? ‘People like me.’”

“Ordinary,” Sherlock answered, still not looking away from the screen. Abbie shot a look at John, who looked defeated.

“Stupid. Better change it.”

“There’s no point.”

John sighed. “No. I suppose.”

Sherlock opened a new tab and opened John’s blog. “I see you’ve started a blog…”

“You— you read it?”

“‘Imperious.’ Not a word I’ve ever been called before.” Abbie had given John the word. She thought it was a kinder way of describing Sherlock most accurately.

“I said some nice stuff about you too…” John said, trying to defend himself. “I said you knew some good restaurants.”

“‘Pompous’ has a ‘U’ in it.”

“Right. Thank you.” John snatched the computer away from its place on the table and snapped it shut.

“Hiding something on there, John?” Abbie teased.

“No,” he said, echoed by Sherlock’s “Yes.”

Abbie raised a brow. “Shut up,” John said and turned back to the kitchen.

Sherlock watched the two interact. It was clear that John was enamored by her, and the flirting now was so painfully obvious, but Sherlock would tell that she was not interested. To her, it was just playful teasing— banter between friends.

John’s stance changed and Sherlock knew he was about to witness a train-wreck, but couldn’t look away.

“So, Abbie. I was wondering if… you’d like to go get a drink sometime?”

Abbie looked sympathetic. “John, that’s really sweet. I’m sorry, but I uh… I have a boyfriend.”

Sherlock had seen girls use that line before, and they were usually lying. Or, they were sincere, but that was rare. Abbie was telling the truth, but she sounded almost disappointed in it.

“Right. Right, yes, of course. I’m sorry.” _Of course, she has a boyfriend you bloody idiot,_ John thought to himself. _Look at her._

“Can we still get a drink as friends?” Before John could answer, her phone went off. She checked the text and then checked the time. “Oh fuck! Running late! Talk to you later, John! See you, Sherlock!” She winked at the consulting detective as she rushed out of the flat, and Sherlock caught sight of the dark purple bruise on the back of her neck as she hurried down the stairs.

“So that went…” John said when he heard the front door shut.

“Did you see the bruise?” Sherlock asked.

“Hm? Oh, Abbie said she fell down the stairs at her flat.”

 _Yes,_ Sherlock thought to himself. _Because falling down the stairs will give you a handprint-shaped bruise._ But for once in his life, Sherlock felt it wasn’t his place to reveal anything.

-

“You’re doing _what?_ ” Abbie had run to NSY and changed into the outfit she kept in her locker. There wasn’t really much for her to be doing, but a few hours after she had left Baker Street, Lestrade received a text from their favorite consulting detective.

“It’s not a reassignment, Abbie,” Greg said. “It’s just this case I’m on now wouldn’t be of any interest to you. Besides, trial starts Monday and I have to take the weekend to prepare.”

“But you were just complaining about how busy you were.”

“And _Donovan_ is helping me. It’s just for this case. I need you to make sure Dimmock listens to what Sherlock has to say and that Sherlock doesn’t do anything stupid.” _So I’m playing babysitter_ , she thought _._ “Besides, it would be good for your official application to have another letter of recommendation from another DI.”

-

She hadn’t bothered with small talk with DI Dimmock in the car. In reality, he wouldn’t shut up about himself and at one point, asked her out. _What the fuck is going on today,_ she wondered. But unlike John, when she told him she had a boyfriend, his attitude toward her changed.

When they arrived at Eddie Van Coon’s flat, Abbie rushed inside and pushed through the Forensics team to get to Sherlock and John before Dimmock did to warn them.

“John!” He was standing outside of Van Coon’s bedroom, watching Forensics. “Listen, I—“

“John, come in here!” Sherlock called from the bedroom. Abbie followed John inside. The body was lying on the bed, his hand outstretched, and the gun beside it on the floor.

“Sherlock, before you—“ She pulled out her notebook and pen from her back pocket.

Sherlock held up a hand as if to say, ‘Not now.’ He was busy, in his zone, observing the body.

Abbie snapped her mouth shut, but John missed the cue. “You think maybe he’d lost a lot of money?” He asked. “Suicide rate is pretty high amongst these city types.”

“We don’t know that it was suicide.”

 _We don’t, Sherlock, but I know you do_.

“Come on! His door was locked from the inside. You had to climb across the balcony…”

“Wait, you jumped _balconies?_ ” Abbie asked. Both were ignored while Sherlock observed the man’s suitcase.

“Been away. Three days, judging by the laundry,” he pointed out. “Look— something was packed tightly inside this case.”

“Thanks. I’ll take your word for it.” John said.

“What’s the matter?”

“I’m not desperate to root around some bloke’s dirty underwear.” Abbie huffed out a laugh. She had to write that bit down just so she could remember it for later to laugh at again.

“Those symbols at the bank — that graffiti. Why was it put there?”

Abbie wrote, ‘What graffiti???’

“You think it was some sort of code?” John asked.

“Obviously. But I’m saying why paint it? Why not use email if you want to make contact?”

John thought for a moment, “Maybe he wasn’t answering…”

“Good. You follow.”

“No.”

“What sort of message would everyone try to avoid?” Sherlock had crouched onto the bed and put on a pair of latex gloves— _Did he keep those in his coat at all times?_ — and started poking around inside the man’s mouth.

“What about this morning? Those letters you were looking at.” He tried again.

“Bills?” John clarified.

“Yes. He was being threatened.”

“Not by the gas board.”

Sherlock pulled out a moist, crumpled up ball of black paper from the man’s mouth. There was nothing written on it, it was just blank.

“Gross,” Abbie whispered as she watched Sherlock pulled an evidence bag from his pocket— S _eriously, where does he get this stuff and why?_ — and stick the paper inside.

In watching Sherlock work his way through the crime scene, she had completely forgotten why she rushed up there to begin with until it was too late.

Dimmock finally found them in Van Coon’s bedroom. He was a newly promoted Detective Inspector. Greg called him young and fresh-faced. Abbie already wasn’t fond of him and found him sort of a prick. And by the look on his face, he wasn’t too keen to find her _not_ doing whatever it is he thought she was supposed to be doing and with Sherlock and John instead.

Sherlock hopped off of the bed and walked over to Dimmock and extended his hand. “Ah, Sergeant… We haven’t met.”

Dimmock didn’t shake his hand and instead, put both hands on his hips and puffed his chest out a bit. _Prick_. “I know who you are. And I’d prefer it if you didn’t tamper with any of the evidence.”

Sherlock handed over the evidence bag and looked past Dimmock to Abbie, who gave him an apologetic smile, though it wasn’t his fault. _I did try to warn him. But I don’t think I’ve ever seen Sherlock… try. He actually tried there, and Dimdick shot him down._

“I phoned Lestrade. Is he on his way?”

“He’s busy. I’m in charge. And it’s not Sergeant. It’s Detective Inspector. Dimmock.” He turned back into the hall and went into the lounge. Sherlock followed, then John and Abbie. John gave her a bemused look, and she rolled her eyes and shook her head. _I’ll tell you later._

“We’re obviously looking at a suicide,” Dimmock announced a bit too confidently.

“It does seem the only explanation of the facts.” John agreed.

Oh, Sherlock looked like a firecracker ready to go off. “Wrong. It’s one possible explanation of some of the facts. You’ve got a solution that you like… but you’re just choosing to ignore anything you see that doesn’t comply with it.”

The annoyance radiating off Dimmock was blatant, but he allowed Sherlock to continue, per Abbie’s warning while they were still in the car. “Listen to what Sherlock Holmes had to say or else you’ll look like an idiot. He probably has the case half-solved already anyway.”

“The wound is on the right side of his head,” Sherlock continued.

“And?”

“Van Coon was left-handed.” He bent his left arm over his head to mime pointing a gun at his right temple. “Requires a bit of contortion.“

“Left-handed?” Dimmock asked.

“I’m amazing you didn’t notice. All you have to do is look around this flat…”

Abbie glanced at John and smirked. _Here we go…_

“Tea stains from the bottom of mugs, where he’s been resting them on the arm of that chair. The left arm... Pad and paper on the left side of his phone, means he could hold it in his right hand and take messages with his left... All his expensive, favorite suits on the left side of his wardrobe, because he’d open the left-hand door... Want me to go on?”

Dimmock looked about ready to pop. John stepped in, “Er, no. I think you’ve covered it.”

Sherlock ignored them both. “I might as well actually. There’s only one left on the list. The butter knife on the kitchen surface has butter on the right side of the blade because he used it with his left. Unlikely that a left-handed man would shoot himself in the right side of the head. Conclusion: someone broke in and murdered him. The only explanation of all of the facts.”

“But the gun…”

“He was waiting for the killer. He’d been threatened,” Sherlock explained.

“What?” _Seriously, was this DI as dense as a rock?_

“Today at the bank. A sort of warning,” John clarified.

“He fired when his attacker came in.”

“And the bullet?”

“Went out the window,” Sherlock said as if it were as clear as day. Behind her, Abbie could hear the other officers gossiping about Sherlock. She grit her teeth.

“Oh, come on! What are the chances of that?”

_What were the other explanations, Dimmock?_

“Wait for the pathologist’s report. The bullet in his brain wasn’t fired from his gun, I guarantee.” Sherlock said confidently.

“But if his door was locked from the inside… how did the killer get in?”

“Good. You’re finally asking the right questions.” Sherlock gave no warning before he stormed out of the flat, John following closely behind.

Dimmock turned to Abbie. “Can you believe that guy?”

“Actually,” she snapped her notebook shut. She had only written down the stuff Sherlock had pointed out. “Yes, I can. Since obviously, you don’t have a bloody clue as to what happened here.” She pushed past the officers for the door.

“Where are you going now?” Dimmock called after her.

“I’ll be right back!” She hurried down the stairs, not wanting to wait for the lift. “Don’t get your pants all in a knot,” she muttered under her breath.

Abbie caught Sherlock and John just outside of the building. “Hey!” She reached John first, and finally, Sherlock stopped a few steps ahead when he realized John wasn’t following him anymore.

“What is it now?” Sherlock turned on his heel.

“And what was that all about?” John asked.

Abbie rolled her eyes. “Greg put me on temporary assignment with Dimmock because he said it would be good to have a reference from more than one DI, although I think I just fucked that up when I basically called him an idiot. I tried to warn you, but I got distracted. I’m sorry. Listen, I only have a few minutes before Dimmock comes and tries to look for me, so tell me about the threats.”

“No.” Sherlock went to turn away.

“Sherlock! Please? Listen, if you’re withholding evidence—“

“And what are you going to do, Miss Coleman? Arrest me?” He taunted, knowing full well she did not have the authority to do so.

Abbie grit her teeth. “I refuse to just stand off to the side and let Dimmock screw things up. Now, tell me!”

The two of them stood there for a second, fierce eyes boring into one another before Sherlock dug his phone out of his coat pocket, pulled up the photos of the graffiti, and handed it to her. Abbie swiped through them, looking at the symbols, doing her best to commit them to memory. She would have to draw them as soon as she could or else she risked the memory of them fading away, even if she had to draw them on her arm.

She shook her head as she handed the phone back. “I don’t recognize them. I’ll look into them. See what I can find.”

“Look where, exactly?” John asked.

“I won’t tell anyone at NSY if that’s what you’re worried about. I told you, Michael Dimmock is in his own world; a bit too high on his horse if you ask me. He wouldn’t listen to me anyway even if I did tell him. But I like puzzles and hidden messages.” She turned to John, “I’ll see you later then. That’s if I don’t strangle Dimmock.”

John smiled. “Good luck.”

-

Abbie was on her “smoke break” the next morning in the car park. She didn’t smoke— never had— but she found that anyone could take as many smoke breaks as they pleased without question, and was more acceptable than “I need to go stand in the car park and scream for a bit before I rip someone’s head off.” And Michael Dimmock was getting on her last damn nerve. He all but threw Sherlock’s theory out the window and continued on investigating Van Coon’s death as a suicide.

Her phone buzzed in her pocket and when she pulled it out, she saw John’s name. She smiled, hoping that he would at least have something good to tell her.

“Hello, John.”

“Hi, Abbie. Are you busy?” It sounded like he was walking.

“No, you actually caught me on my smoke break.”

“You don’t smoke too, do you?”

“No. I just say I do so I can get away for a few minutes. Greg does it too, but last time I checked, he was smoking again. I nearly hit him.”

John huffed out a laugh on the other end, “Since when do you call him Greg?”

 _Since he’s been feeding me almost every night. Since he’s been driving me home every night, or if not, I’m sleeping in his guest bedroom. Since he and Mycroft don’t seem to blink when I go to their flat and make myself at home._ “Never mind that. What’s up, John? Where are you walking from?”

“Oh. Yes! The surgery. I’ve got a job.”

“That’s wonderful! It’ll be so good for you to get back into things.”

“Yeah… Yeah.”

Abbie smirked. “Who’s the girl, John?”

“Girl? What girl?”

“Pfft! Oh, _please_ , John. I’m not an idiot, I can hear it in your voice. Now tell me about this girl you’ve met. Is she from the surgery?”

“She is. Her name is Sarah, she’s the practice manager.” She could hear his smile through the phone. “Though I don’t think it’s appropriate to ask your manager out on a date, especially after you’ve just been hired.”

“Hmm… Perhaps you’re right. Better wait until next week, then,” she teased. “What does _Sherlock_ think about you having a job now?”

“I don’t even think Sherlock knew I left this morning for the interview. I told him, but he looked like he was in a whole other world.”

“I’m sure once he realizes that you’re gone for most of the day, he’ll sulk.” She smirked. A black car pulled into the carpark and parked. Its windows were tinted and had government-issued plates. _Mycroft_. “John, I’ll call you later if I don’t see you. I’ve got to go.”

“Somehow, I have the feeling we’ll be in soon.”

“Can’t wait.” She hung up just as Mycroft was getting out of the car. “I thought you had someone drive you everywhere.”

“Not to NSY. Wouldn’t want anybody to talk. What are you doing down here?” He asked.

“Making any excuse to get away from upstairs.”

“Yes, how is that going? Gregory told me he had assigned you to another DI for the case.”

“And you can tell Gregory that if he ever does that again, I’ll spit in his coffee for a week,” she glowered.

Mycroft nodded in understanding. “So I suppose that answers my question…”

She sighed. “Dimmock’s just making everything so much more difficult than it needs to be. He doesn’t listen to Sherlock, and so I’m left in the middle to make sure that the investigation isn’t ruined and those two don’t strangle one another. How did it get put on me to play babysitter?”

“That does sound like my brother. Always making a scene and coming off as well… Sherlock.”

“But he’s brilliant! And he manages to command a room even if no one believes what he’s saying. And then when I try to say something…”

“You get brushed off?”

“All morning,” she rolled her eyes.

“You know,” Mycroft said, “a young woman once sat across from me and told me that while she is _smart_ , she intends to be _brilliant_.” Abbie blushed at her own words being turned around on her. “And part of being brilliant is making your voice heard, even if some refuse to listen.”

“I’m not even officially NSY yet; no one listens to me.”

“And things will continue that way if you keep that attitude,” he raised a brow.

Abbie pursed her lips. “I hate that you’re right...”

“I am seldom wrong, Abigail.”

She wasn’t going to argue with him about her name. She’d been trying for weeks now to get him to call her Abbie. He was dead set on calling her Abigail, just like he called Greg by his full name.

She sighed. “Thank you, Mycroft,” she said as she headed toward the door to the stairwell. “I’ll tell Greg to come down.”

“Thank you. Good luck. And don’t take it out on Gregory.”

“Yeah yeah...”

She made her way up the stairs to Greg’s office. “Hey.”

He looked up from the paperwork on his desk. “Hey, what’s up?”

“Someone’s downstairs waiting for you,” she winked.

He couldn’t help the grin that spread across his face. “What’s he got you doing, playing messenger now?”

“I happened to be down there. Had a nice chat.”

“About?”

“I believe the lesson was that if I want to be taken seriously, I have to actually speak up.”

“Oh?” He raised a brow. “So what I’ve been telling you all along then? And you just listen to Mycroft?”

“Well, he just drove the nail in.” She gestures toward the direction of the stairwell. “Now go on. You’re scheduled for a tonsil tennis match.” Abbie winked.

“ _Ach!_ Never ever say that again!” Greg cringed. He walked past her as she burst into a fit of giggles. “You go on and solve the case, will you?”

-

Abbie went back upstairs with every intention of speaking with Dimmock, however, she found that Sherlock and John had beat her to it. Sherlock was using Dimmock’s computer to search the Internet for something while Dimmock sat surrounded by fellow police officers— embarrassed no doubt— as Sherlock Holmes came to show him up once again. Abbie pushed her way through the cluster to his desk.

“Brian Lukis. Journalist. Freelance. Murdered in his flat. The door locked from the inside,” Sherlock said.

“You’ve got to admit it’s similar. Both men killed by someone who can walk through solid walls!” John added.

Dimmock said nothing. He looked to the other police— even to Abbie— for some sort of backup, but no one gave it.

“Inspector? Do you _seriously_ believe that Eddie Van Coon was just another city suicide?” Sherlock asked, but still no response. “You checked with ballistics, I suppose?” Dimmock nodded. Even Abbie had viewed them and there was absolutely no chance that it was a suicide. “And? The shot that killed him wasn’t from his own gun.”

“No,” Dimmock muttered.

“No. So. This investigation might move a bit _quicker_ if you took my word as gospel.”

Dimmock’s eyes near fell out of his head. He looked to John, then to Abbie, then to Sherlock, then back to John.

“He makes everyone feel like that,” John shrugged.

“And I had been saying that since the beginning, actually,” Abbie said.

Sherlock looked satisfied with himself. “I’ve just handed you a murder inquiry. We might have a serial killer. Five minutes in that flat.”

-

“A killer who can climb… Bloody climb walls!” Dimmock was still dumbfounded the entire ride back to NSY from Lukis’ flat.

“Yes. Well, I know it seems ridiculous, but if Sherlock thinks—“

“You don’t actually believe that _freak_ , do you?”

Everything pent up in Abbie finally just burst. “Actually, yes, I do. And he’s _not_ a freak! Someone isn’t a freak because they’re different from you. He’s solved plenty of cases before, and it will be _him_ that solves this one! So, I suggest you take his advice, my advice, Lestrade’s advice, literally _everyone’s_ advice, and start listening to Sherlock Holmes and treating his theories as you would your own!”

“I can’t if he withholds evidence, which he obviously is!” Dimmock snapped back. “There are details about this case that he knows and he’s not telling us.”

“Well, it’s a good thing you’ve got me then since for some reason, I’m the only one at NSY Sherlock will actually speak to besides Lestrade. And another thing! Lestrade assigned me to you for this case because I need experience. And so far, I haven’t gotten any from you. Everything I’m learning in this case is from Sherlock. I am not some… lackey to fetch you coffee or to just stand there and be silent. I’d really appreciate it if you would at least see me as one of the officers on your team. Please. Sir.” Abbie sat back in her seat a bit and tried to will her heart to stop beating in her ears.

It was silent for a moment, and Abbie was sure she had probably just lost all chances of being at New Scotland Yard. And then, “I’m sorry.”

Abbie turned to him. “Pardon?”

“I’m sorry, Coleman. I… remember what it was like to be a Rookie. Frankly, it sucks. I will… give you more of a chance.”

Abbie smirked. “Thank you… Detective Inspector Dimmock.”

-

“I am so tired, I don’t even think I can eat.” Abbie groaned at the table as she dished her take away onto a plate.

“Really?” Greg asked.

“No, I’m always hungry. If I ever refuse food, take me to A&E.” As she took a bite, she nearly melted into her seat. She had managed to shower in between her and Greg coming home, Mycroft returning home hours later, and ordering take away. Thankfully she had begun leaving spare clothes there and changed into a pair of sweatpants and an old t-shirt. Her damp hair was thrown messily into a bun but she sincerely didn’t care.

“Is the case going well, Abigail?” Mycroft asked.

“I owe Abbie a pint when this is all over,” Greg answered as Abbie continued to eat as if she hadn’t eaten in days.

She swallowed, “Up to five now.”

“Did you speak to him? Mycroft asked.

“I did,” Abbie said. “And he actually listened… and apologized.”

“See?” Mycroft smirked.

“I’ve _been_ telling her,” Greg said.

Abbie just glared at the both of them and continued eating.

-

Mycroft didn’t make it a habit of checking on Abbie when she spent the night. Once she retired to the guest bedroom, that was it. Since she was only on call the next day, it was likely they wouldn’t see her emerge until late morning if no one called for her.

She was strange to him. He could read her like a book, and yet, anything about her personal life was a mystery. It had been a few weeks since she started staying the night at Greg’s. It first started out to seem like an accident. Once she had become comfortable with being not only in an informal presence with her boss, but also Mycroft, she seemed more relaxed. She would eat dinner with them, and always seemed to eat like she hadn’t eaten for days and didn’t know when her next meal would be. She joked it was because she’s “still a growing girl” and needs all her strength to be running around London. A half-truth, but mostly a lie by omission. Mycroft didn’t press it. She would start to doze off and Greg would insist she just sleep in the guest bedroom. Then it turned into, “It’s just easier if you stay the night since we both have work in the morning anyway.” Mycroft didn’t question the look of relief that washed over her.

They were now at the point where Mycroft expected her for the night. He still enjoyed and relished the nights Greg and he had alone— when they could spend the night alone with both their busy schedules— but he would be lying if he said he hadn’t come to also enjoy the nights filled with lively conversation that Abbie brought. Or how she insisted on helping Greg cook, but would never pay attention, and just talk about nonsense or try to weasel Mycroft into telling her more about his work. Or even how she thought that the walls must be made of concrete and that Greg and Mycroft couldn’t hear her singing in the shower. They just didn’t have the heart to tell her. Mycroft had listened to her rendition of “Lucy in the Sky with Diamonds” a handful of times already to the point where the song was beginning to get stuck in his head.

He found it amusing the first time she actually explored the flat. He didn’t know what she expected it to be. He supposed he had only seen the front of the flat: an open floor plan with the sitting room, dining room, and kitchen. But the flat did, in fact, have a back and even a second story. The only thing upstairs was the master bedroom and a terrace, so it wasn’t worth exploring. But in addition to the guest bedroom with its own en suite, there was a study and a half bathroom.

Greg rarely used the study, so it had become Mycroft’s. Bookshelves were filled with a mix of Greg’s books and some of Mycroft’s favorites that he kept at Greg’s just in case. Some nights, when Greg was watching a game, Abbie would sit and watch for only a bit before she was too tired to care. And then she’d spend only a bit in the guest bedroom before she quietly emerged and snuck into the study with a book of her own while Mycroft was situated at the desk, seemingly too engrossed in his laptop to notice her. Of course, he noticed her. But, she was quiet where she sat on the futon and read, so he didn’t see the point in turning her away.

Once, he did question her. “Abigail, why do you always sit in here?”

“Truthfully?”

“Mm.”

“I like the sound of you typing… And you look like you could use some quiet company.” And that was that.

It wasn’t that Mycroft _didn’t_ care for the girl. In fact, he found himself caring a great deal. It was never supposed to be that way. He and Greg lived a very quiet, very private life. Mycroft saw caring as a disadvantage. Emotions got in the way of things, created biases, and when the person you care about was hurt, it hurt you. But, he loved Sherlock, he was his baby brother and always would be. And he loved Greg, he was the love of his life. But he was never supposed to care about Abbie, who was neither. Yet, here he was, gently tucking her in, though he had no idea where the urge to do so came from.

She kept a lot of things secret. It drove Mycroft insane that he couldn’t tell what those secrets were, but he knew they were bad. He knew there was a reason she spent most nights at Greg’s than her flat that she shared with her boyfriend. He knew there was a reason she kept a handful of clothes at Greg’s and it wasn’t just because she kept forgetting to take them home. He knew that the now fading bruise on her neck was not caused by falling down the stairs. He didn’t want to overstep boundaries, but he also knew it was better to be safe than sorry.

“Gregory,” Mycroft said when he entered their bedroom.

“Hm?” Greg was half-asleep in bed.

“What do you know about Abigail’s boyfriend?”

“Myc, can’t this wait ‘till morning?” Greg mumbled.

“No. No, this is too important.”

Greg groaned and sat up. “I don’t know anything about him, Mycroft, except his name is Quincy and he works in finance.”

“Haven’t you ever found it strange that Abigail never speaks of him, never seems to want to go home?”

“Mycroft, what are you saying?”

“I believe that he’s… he’s hurting Abigail…”

Greg sat up straighter now, fully awake. “You ‘ _believe_ ,’ Mycroft, or you _know?_ ”

Mycroft just looked at him. He knew.

“Jesus, Mycroft.” He scrubbed a hand down his face. “I’ll talk to her. After this case is solved, though. She’s here now, with us, she’s safe. She needs to stay focused. She’s—“ he yawned, “— being hired to Scotland Yard after.”

Mycroft’s shoulders relaxed a bit. She would have a job, earn wages, be able to financially independent. She could leave. “Good… That’s good.”

-

She had almost made it through the entire day without a call. She thought she was in the clear come nightfall. But she found herself standing in the morgue at St. Bart’s with Sherlock, John, Dimmock, and the mortician Molly Hooper. She’d never met her and didn’t really get much of a chance to speak with her except for introductions, but Abbie could tell she was kind. And from the way she looked at Sherlock, had quite the crush on him.

“We’re just interested in the feet,” Sherlock said.

“The _feet?_ ” Molly asked. She had been ready to unzip the body bag from the top down.

“Do you mind if we just take a look at them?”

Molly shrugged and unzipped Lukis’ bag. There was a tiny black tattoo on his ankle. “Now Van Coon,” Sherlock said. The same tattoo was on his ankle.

To no surprise, Dimmock didn’t see the connection. “So?”

“So either these two men happened to visit the same Chinese tattoo parlor. Or, I’m telling the truth.”

Abbie smirked as Dimmock let out a sigh. “What do you want?”

“I want every book from Lukis’ apartment. And Van Coon’s.”

“Their books?” He asked.

“Oh, just do as he says,” Abbie said and instead of following Dimmock out to go fetch the books, she followed Sherlock and John to the cab they hailed.

Just as John was shutting the door, she reached out and stopped them.

“What are you doing?” Sherlock asked.

“Scooch over,” she said to John. Confused, he did, and she got in the cab and shut the door. “How did you know about the tattoos?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Sherlock said.

“Yes, you do.” She pulled out her notebook. “Go on, from when I last saw you at Lukis’ apartment.”

“It’s a long story.”

“Then you’d better start.”

“I speak rather quickly.”

“Good thing I write fast,” and clicked open her pen.

-

“It’s not just a criminal network— it’s a cult. Her brother’s been corrupted by one of its leaders.” Abbie continued to write down everything Sherlock and John said. Her head was in a whirlwind and hadn’t yet processed all of the crimes the two had committed but would nevertheless be overlooked in the end because they solved the case.

“Soo Lin said the name…” John added.

“Yes. ‘Shan. General Shan.’ In Chinese, it means ‘the mountain.’”

John flopped down in his chair, exhausted. “We’re still no closer to finding them…”

“Wrong! We know almost all there is to know. She gave us most of the missing pieces…” Sherlock sat and thought for a moment. “Why would he go and see his sister? Why would he need her expertise?”

Abbie sat down at the table and stretched her hand to release the cramps.

“She worked at the museum,” John answered.

“Exactly.”

“An expert in antiquities…” It took John a moment for it to dawn on him. “Ah. Of course. I see.”

“Valuable antiquities,” Sherlock elaborated. “Ancient relics of China purchased on the black market. China’s home to a thousand treasures — hidden after Mau’s revolution.”

John nodded. “And the Black Lotus is selling them.”

Sherlock grabbed John’s laptop and opened it to an auction website. He searched through photos of valuable antiquities that were up for auction, paying close attention to anything oriental. He paused on a photo of two vases. “Check the dates. Look. Arrived from China a week ago. Anonymous. The vendor doesn’t give his name. Two undiscovered treasures from the East.”

“One in Lukis’ suitcase and one in Van Coon’s,” John said.

Sherlock searched for Chinese antiquities sold at auction and passed the laptop to Abbie. “Coleman. Make note of anything brought into the country by an anonymous vendor.”

Abbie cracked her knuckles and scrolled through, writing down the objects and the date next to each one. “Here’s another one,” she said. “A month ago. Chinese ceramic statue. Sold for four hundred thousand. And a month before that, a Chinese painting, half a million. Jesus. All of them are from an anonymous source.”

“They’re stealing them back in China and— one by one— they’re feeding them into Britain,” Sherlock said.

John began cross-referencing Lukis' pocket diary and a print-out of Van Coon’s computer diary. He grabbed a highlighter off of the table and circled a few dates and compared them to the dates on Abbie’s list. “Every single auction coincides with Eddie or Brian Lukis traveling to China.”

“So, if one of those men was greedy when they were in China; if they stole something…” Sherlock said.

“That’s why he’s come.”

There was a knock on the door. The three of them turned to see Mrs. Hudson. “Are we collecting for charity, Sherlock?”

“What?”

“A young man’s outside with a crate of books.”

Soon, the entire sitting room was filled with boxes and boxes of books, stacked two or three high, and constables still continued to bring in more. They were separated and labeled with either “Van Coon” or “Lukis.” Sherlock, John, and Abbie stood amongst them.

“So, the numbers. They’re references,” Sherlock said.

“To books?” John asked.

“To specific pages. And specific words on those pages,” Sherlock explained.

“Right. So, ’15’ and ‘1’ means… you turn to page fifteen and it’s the first word that you read? And the message…?” Abbie mused.

“Depends on the book,” Sherlock answered. “It would never the same book twice. That’s the cunning of a book code.” They stared at the piles of boxes of books. “It’s got to be something they both own.”

“Okay, fine. Well, this shouldn’t take too long, should it?” John said dryly. He grabbed a few books from both men’s boxes and started making lists to cross-reference later.

Dimmock entered the room holding a stack of papers sealed in an evidence bag. “We found these at the museum. Is this your writing?” He showed them to Sherlock, and then looked at Abbie. She shrugged; for all he knew, she knew nothing. She started looking through the boxes, just as Sherlock.

The pages were of scribbled ciphers that Sherlock had asked Soo Lin to translate. “We hoped maybe she could decipher it,” John said when Sherlock didn’t answer.

Sherlock just grabbed the bag and tossed it onto the table. John picked it up and moved it out of his way.

Dimmock hovered in the room for a moment, trying to see what they were doing, wanting to be a part of whatever it was they were doing. “Anything else I can do?” He asked. “To assist you, I mean.”

Sherlock, without looking up, said, “Some silence would be _marvelous._ ”

Dimmock’s shoulders slouched. Abbie offered him a small smile, but it was unclear if it was of sympathy or victory. For some reason or another, _she_ was allowed to stay.

They soon fell into a very silent, very efficient routine. Sherlock and Abbie rummaged through the boxes, while John picked up a few from both boxes at a time and made note of them. He looked exhausted, and his movements were slow. Abbie wondered how much longer it would be until he crashed.

They stayed like that for hours and still got nowhere. Occasionally, Sherlock would say something. “The thing about a book code — it has to be a book that all of the gang members own. And one that they all have access to…”

“Can’t run around town with the works of Shakespeare in your pocket,” John mumbled and dropped on the floor what Abbie presumed was a Shakespeare.

“Speak for yourself,” she said.

They worked for more hours. The curtains were drawn and no one had thought to really look at a clock. Soon, Sherlock had made it through several boxes, still wide awake. Abbie had brought a box of each down to floor level and sat, reading through books with heavy eyes. John, on the other hand, had dozed off some time ago; his head in his hand. Sherlock hadn’t noticed and Abbie didn’t have the heart to wake him.

The alarm on John’s watch rang, startling him awake. He rubbed at his face and opened the curtains a bit. Blinding sunlight shone through and into Abbie’s eyes.

“ _Sweet suffering Jesus!_ ” She turned and shielded her eyes. “It’s the _morning!_ ”

“And I have work.” John was upstairs to get ready in a flash. No sooner did he rush out the door to his first day at the Surgery.

-

Sherlock and Abbie kept at it while John was gone. Abbie began to fade and yet, Sherlock stayed active and alert. John had said that he sometimes went days without sleeping, but she couldn’t actually believe someone could. There was the “Survival Rule of 3,” three minutes without oxygen, three days without water, and three weeks without food. She read somewhere that after 48 hours of no sleep, you would start to really see the effects. She wondered what hour Sherlock was on.

Another thing was beginning to bother her. Not bother her, per se, but concern her. “Sherlock? Can I ask you a question?”

“No,” he said.

“You don’t have to answer me, but… do you like John?”

“Of course I like John. I live with him.”

“No. No, Sherlock. Do you— do you _fancy_ John? It’s just, the way you look at him, it’s…”

He looked up from the books but said nothing. And that was all the confirmation Abbie needed.

“I’m sorry…” she said. “Perhaps—“

“John’s not gay.”

“Right. Because he just looks at you like you hung the stars because…?”

“Why do you care?” Sherlock snapped.

“Everyone deserves to be happy, Sherlock.” To that, he had no answer.

-

More hours passed and Sherlock had still been flipping through books. Abbie had since succumbed to exhaustion and taken a nap on the sofa. She was awakened by Sherlock now tossing books across the room. “A book everyone would own…” he said and started going through his own bookshelves.

“The Bible?” Abbie suggested and rubbed her eyes. “The Dictionary?” Sherlock tried them both— nothing. He tried a few more and no results. Exasperated, he shook his hands in his hair, fluffing up his unruly curls.

As if on cue, John came into the flat from work.

Abbie smiled. “How was your fir-“

“I need to get some air to the brain,” Sherlock said. “We’re going out tonight.”

“Actually, I’ve got a date,” John smirked.

“With who?” Abbie asked.

“Sarah. From the Surgery.”

“What?” Sherlock asked.

“It’s where two people who like each other go out and have fun, Sherlock.”

Sherlock looked confused. “That’s what I was suggesting.”

“No it wasn’t,” John said. “At least, I hope not…”

_Oh, poor Sherlock…_

If Sherlock cared, he didn’t show it. He was pulling out his wallet. “Where are you taking her?”

“Cinema,” John said.

“Hardly original. What about this?” He handed John a scrap of paper; it was a scrap of a poster for a circus in town. “In London for one night only.”

“Thanks,” John said looking down at the scrap of paper. “But I don’t come for you for dating advice.” He smirked and headed upstairs to his room.

Sherlock watched after him and then turned to Abbie. “Fancy the circus?”

“Are you… asking me—“

“No. Not a date.”

_Means he’s up to something. Means he’s planning on John going to that circus and he’s going to go as well, anyway._

“Friends… _do_ go out together, correct? I’m not mistaken?” His head tilted slightly.

_Friend. Friend._

She grinned. “I’d love to go on a _Friend Date_ with you, Sherlock Holmes.”

“Not a date!” He called after her as she grabbed her stuff and made her way down the stairs.

“Nope, but you _did_ call me your friend!”

-

It was one of those very rare occasions in which Mycroft had the day off (to work from home), but Gregory had been called in for work, and Abbie had left the previous day and Mycroft assumed she was still at Baker Street doing whatever Sherlock had tasked her with.

The work he had to do wasn't much, and he was done by that afternoon. He didn’t wish to go back to his own flat, so he thought it best to at least do some housework. He stripped his and Greg’s bed and Abbie’s bed and put the sheets in the wash. It wasn’t until they were finished and he had set to make her bed when he realized that the spare bedroom had gone from “the guest bedroom that no one will use” to “Abbie’s room.” It had snuck up on him completely.

He remembered when Greg had first bought the flat. He was recently divorced and unaware of what the future held, except that he knew he wanted Mycroft to be in it. So there they were, standing in the empty sitting room, then, just after settlement.

_“I think I liked it because it has such a nice kitchen,” Greg grinned._

_“I must say, Greg, it is a rather decent apartment,” Mycroft told him._

_“Wow. Coming from you, that’s a lot. Especially since just your London flat is bigger than three of these flats.”_

_“And I told you, you were welcome to stay as long as you liked.”_

_“And I told_ you _, Mycroft, that I would love to, but I have to do this. This— us— it’s still new—“_

_“Not when you really think about it.”_

_“— and I don’t want to impose. Besides, we have such crazy schedules, it’s probably best we have our own places.”_

_Mycroft sighed. He was right. There was also the issue that he and Greg were not out to the world, and how long could he use the excuse that a “friend” was crashing on his sofa after a messy divorce? “I do like that the bedroom is upstairs.”_

_“Yeah,” Greg grinned. “Gives it a bit more privacy. And—“ he pointed to what is now the study. “I can turn that one into an office. Build some shelves. Put a desk in there. That way, we have a place to do work at home that isn’t a coffee table.”_

_Mycroft smiled. In all of Greg’s plans, there was him. “What about the other bedroom? Shall it be a guest bedroom?”_

_Greg shrugged. “Guess so. Not that I can think of any reason any of us would have guests. But, no harm in having one. Just in case.”_

Things of Abbie’s had stopped going in between there and her own flat. Whatever she brought there, it stayed. Mycroft wondered if she was doing it intentionally; if one day there wouldn’t be anything left to bring.

-

He was really bored now. He blamed Anthea and her insistence that he actually take the weekend for himself for once. He had only managed to text Greg a few times throughout the day. He knew his partner was in his office at Scotland Yard, buried under a mountain of paperwork as he finished up the case he’d been working on and prepare for the trial. His own work was done for the day, but he still couldn’t bring himself to go home to his own home in Belgravia. The smaller flat there in Chelsea was much more home to him than his own place had ever been.

It wasn’t until later that afternoon when Abbie came back. She’d still been using the spare key Greg kept hidden on the front stoop. He had insisted on buying one of those ugly garden gnomes, and he kept the key in its mouth.

Mycroft had stayed in the study. The door was wide open, yet Abbie didn’t take any notice as she strode past to her bedroom carrying a duffel. She was humming to herself and Mycroft set the book he was reading down to try and hear what song it was. It was no surprise to him when he realized it was “Penny Lane” by The Beatles.

He stayed quiet and wondered if and when she would notice that he was home as well as he continued to read through the beaten-up copy of _Wuthering Heights_. Apparently, an hour, as he heard her shower run, then the muffled sound of music playing, then a blow dryer, and moments later, a very distinct painful yelp.

He knocked on her bedroom door, “Abigail?”

Another yelp, this time of surprise, and the door wrenched open. “ _Jesus H. Christ on a stick, Mycroft!_ ” She was wrapped in her dressing gown— yet another thing she must have brought— and there was a deep red mark on her neck. Burnt herself. Her accent was different, Mycroft realized. It was heavy and certainly _not_ the one he had heard her speak all this time. Irish, Northern Irish to be exact.

“How long have you been home?” She asked, the accent still there, and pushed past him to the kitchen. She grabbed some ice from the freezer and wrapped it in a small towel and held it on the mark on her neck. She winced at the cold touch but settled into it. Wouldn’t be very good for it to blister or anything.

“Is that— is that your _actual_ voice?” He asked. There was amusement in his eyes.

“What sort of question is that? Yes, it’s my ‘ _actual voice_.’ I was raised in Derry, I still have a Derry accent.”

“But you—“

“— Got made fun of when I moved here and went to school.” She explained. “So, I started copying the posh way all my classmates spoke and by my second year, no one could tell I wasn’t from here.” She made her way back to her room. “You didn’t answer my question. Day off?”

“Anthea— my assistant— insisted I take the day to work from home but I’ve already finished.” He stopped at the threshold of her room.

“You can come in. That’s good, though. You work too hard, anyway. Or, at least, Greg says you do. I don’t exactly understand what it _is_ you do, and I don’t think Greg does either.”

“I have a—“

“— _minor_ position in the British Government, yeah, I’ve heard that one plenty. But ‘minor positions’ don’t get private cars and drivers and get access to peoples’ personal files and all that. You don’t have to tell me, I totally get you were like, a Kingsman or something.” She grinned.

“I wasn’t a Kingsman.” He corrected.

“No, of course, you weren’t,” she blinked. “Anyway, I’m sure it’s nice to just have a weekend. Sucks Greg’s having to work, though. I guess they just couldn’t have the paperwork pushed until next week.”

 _He’s getting all of the paperwork done now because next week, you’re being officially brought on,_ he thought.

He watched her continue to do her hair and makeup. She was going out, that much was obvious. She didn’t even take so much care of her appearance when she went to work. Her hair was always tied back and she wore no makeup unless she put a bit on to hide the dark circles under her eyes.

Mycroft tried his best to turn his deduction skills off when he was with Greg— and Abbie by extension. He realized, unlike his brother, that there was a time and a place for such talents. Nobody wants to be analyzed when they are just trying to eat dinner or sit and watch a movie. It’s much better to simply ask the person— make conversation.

“Where are you going, may I ask?”

Abbie blushed and turned her head to hide her grin. “Er, a date?”

“A date?”

“Well, it’s a _friend date._ Sherlock asked me.”

Mycroft’s eyebrows could not have physically risen anymore. “Sherlock? My brother Sherlock?”

“Mhm. To the circus. I really actually think it’s something to do with this case... but he planted the idea in John’s head to go there on his date with this girl Sarah and I guess we’re going too.”

“So— a double date?”

“No. Well, yes, I suppose. I’ll be posing as Sherlock’s ‘date,’ but we’re just friends.”

“My brother does not _have_ friends.”

“Well, whether he realizes it or not, he has three.” She smiled sadly. “Greg, John, and me."

“If it’s not a date, then why do you care how you look, hm?” He teased.

“Because I don’t want to show up looking ridiculous.”

“May I?” He gestures toward the closet.

“Be my guest.”

There were a few things on hangers. A few blouses she’d worn to work, and trousers. A single skirt. That would have to do. He handed her the black shirt, a light blue blouse with a cowl neckline, and a black leather jacket. She always wore the jacket, an old and sentimental thing. But it wasn’t bulky on her, and still gave the aura of “styled-up.” “Is this all you have?”

“I mean, no, not technically.” She took the clothes and grabbed a pair of wool tights as well. It was still too chilly to go without.

“And is what you have elsewhere better than this selection?”

“... No.”

“I will have Anthea take you shopping, then,” he said with a straight face. He was completely serious as if that was a normal thing to do: your boss’s partner’s assistant take you out shopping for no doubt tailored, expensive clothing.

Abbie blinked. “What— Mycroft— I— _why?_ ”

“You are still young, Abigail, and you also have a professional job, yet none of what I’ve seen you wear so far shows that.”

“Thank you, you are ever so kind.” She rolled her eyes and went into the bathroom to change.

“You often dress like a child wearing their parent’s clothes,” he tried to save himself.

“Perhaps because I am a child wearing their parent’s clothing. A lot of my clothes are hand-me-downs, either from my mum or my sister. Only, my mum was taller than me, and my sister is _really_ tall, so I drown in them. Lucy used to hem my clothes for me.”

“And where is she now?”

“North London raising her family. I haven’t seen her in two years.” When she was dressed, she stepped out of the bathroom. “Well?”

“You look... nice.” The corner of his mouth upticked.

“I’m going to assume that’s some form of the highest compliment a Holmes can give.”

“Assume away. I... am sorry to hear about your sister.”

“Don’t be,” she shrugged on her jacket. “We had this stupid fight and we just... never got around to talking again. I still send the kids presents on the holidays and their birthdays, give them a call every once in a while. Want to see them?” Her face lit up as she reached for her phone and searched through her saved photos.

“That’s her oldest, Flynn,” Abbie turned her phone around to show Mycroft. “And then there’s the twins, Rory and Carrigan.”

Mycroft was never one for children. Greg was the favorite uncle, and though Mycroft had yet to officially meet Greg’s older sister and her children, he could tell just by the way Greg talked about them how much he adored his nieces and nephews. And apparently, Abbie was the same. “Where did the blonde come from?” He asked.

At that, Abbie rolled her eyes, smiling. “Their father. Christopher Taylor. Lucy met him when she went to Uni. Blonde hair, blue eyes, all muscle.” If Abbie rolled her eyes anymore, they were going to roll out of her head. “He’s older than her. A lot older.”

“Define ‘older?’”

“He’s seven years older than her. Or, six-and-a-half, but might as well be seven! He was twenty-five when she was eighteen when they met and by the next year, they were married, and then another year after that, she was pregnant! Not that it's necessarily bad... I mean, it’s weird and kinda creepy. And he’s a good guy— helped Lucy through law school and everything— and treats her like a queen. But our mum would have skinned Lucy alive and she knows it. That was her rebellion. Being happy and successful, I guess.”

“And what was your rebellion?”

She smirked. “I ran away at eighteen to go live with my shit boyfriend and joined the police academy.”

“Not being happy and successful?”

Abbie took a deep breath. She supposed she would be considered successful. She was working toward the career she wanted. But happy? She couldn’t remember the last time she truly felt happy. When she graduated from the police academy, probably. But then, not really. She was completely alone. While other graduates were being congratulated and hugged by their families and friends, Abbie’s boyfriend hadn’t even shown up. She took the tube home that night and went to bed early.

And then she met Greg, and through him met Sherlock and John and Mycroft. So... “I’m a lot happier now than I used to be.” She smiled and squeezed his arm. “I should get going before the fun starts without me.”

“Here, let me call you a car,” Mycroft said as he pulled out his own phone.

“Oh you don’t have too—“ but it was too late; he was already texting whoever for a car.

-

In hindsight, Abbie wished Mycroft had warned her about Anthea. As soon as the car pulled up and Anthea got out, Abbie’s mouth went dry.

_How can someone be that fucking beautiful?_

Mycroft did warn Abbie that Anthea might be on her phone the whole time, and not to take it personally, because she was most likely doing a task Mycroft had assigned her. But Anthea actually kept her phone off for most of the ride.

She kept asking Abbie questions, and whether or not they were instructive, Abbie couldn’t tell. Anthea even answered a few of Abbie’s questions, despite also being warned that she was pretty secretive. That warning was from John, who met her before.

When they arrived at a sketchy building down in the East End, Anthea tapped in her phone number quickly into Abbie’s phone before letting her go.

“Do text me if you need anything, anytime.”

“I...”

“You’re close with Mycroft. Greg gets the same treatment.”

“O—okay. Thank you.” And then she realized that she didn’t remember most of that conversation at all.

-

There was only a slight reprieve in the cab on the way back to Baker Street, and Abbie took the opportunity to write down everything that had happened.

Sherlock met Abbie at the circus, Sherlock asked her why she had changed her clothes. Abbie replied that she had looked a mess and needed a shower. Sherlock _possibly_ mumbled she looked nice.

Sherlock insisted on making a dramatic entrance, as always.

“And then I phoned back and got two for Abigail and me,” Sherlock snuck up behind John and his date, Abbie in tow.

Sarah looked surprised and John looked annoyed.

“I’m Sherlock,” he held out his hand. “And this is Abigail.”

“Abbie,” she politely corrected him. At least he wasn’t calling her Coleman anymore.

Sarah’s smile was apprehensive. “Nice to meet you… John didn’t say this would be a double-date.”

“Well, we’ve just heard _so much_ about you from John and it’s been years since I’ve ever been to the circus, so we decided to come too. Don’t worry about us, though, we won’t crash your date,” Abbie seemed to reassure Sarah, but not John, who flashed her a look that meant he saw right through her lie and Sherlock was going to certainly crash their date. She quickly mouth ‘I’m sorry,’ before being tugged towards the ladies' room with Sarah who wanted to “freshen up.”

Abbie never understood why girls always went to the loo together. It was rather ridiculous— peeing together. Sometimes they didn’t pee. Sometimes they just went there to talk and put on their lipstick and make sure non had smudged on their teeth. But why would several girls go with someone if they also didn’t have to pee or freshen up? Lucy once said it was because Hermione Granger once went to the bathroom alone, and got attacked by a troll. And Moaning Myrtle died in the bathroom too.

_Why am I thinking about Lucy so much today?_

“So, Abbie, how long have you known John?” Sarah asked, looking at her in the mirror.

“Huh? Oh, erm...” Abbie really had to think. She couldn’t keep track of her days very well, and it didn’t help that she hadn’t really gotten any sleep. “Since January?”

“Oh! Not very long then. How long have you been dating Sherlock?”

Abbie barked out a laugh, “Oh, no, we’re not dating. We’re just friends. Sherlock doesn’t— he erm, doesn’t like me like that.”

_Doesn’t like girls. Actually, he really fancies your date, which is partly why I think he’s here to crash it. Sorry, mate._

The circus itself was interesting. Honestly, Abbie wouldn’t know the difference between this circus and any circus she’s seen before. The last time she went to a circus was probably back when Jude was still alive…

Actually, normal circuses probably had a lot less assault. And without officially working for Scotland Yard, Abbie couldn’t make an arrest. And when they went to Scotland Yard, only Sherlock and John went up to talk to Dimmock. It probably wouldn’t look so good for Abbie to be there with Sherlock, so she stayed on the sidewalk with Sarah.

When they finally arrived back at Baker Street, Abbie had completely zoned out, not listening to Sherlock and John’s conversation at all until they were making their way up the stairs.

“They’ll be back in China by tomorrow,” John said.

“They won’t leave,” Sherlock replied. “Not without finding what they came for. We need to find a hideout — a rendezvous.” He stared at the photograph of the symbols spray-painted on the brick wall. “Somewhere in this message, it must tell us.”

John and Abbie joined him in staring at the photograph, leaving Sarah to shuffle awkwardly behind them before she said, “Well. I think maybe I should leave you to it.”

Sherlock and John answered her simultaneously.

John said, “Oh, you don’t have to go yet… Does she Sherlock? Stay a bit.”

Sherlock said, “Yes. It would be easier to study if you left now.” This earned him a jab in the arm by Abbie.

“He’s kidding. Stay if you like,” Abbie said and smiled warmly.

Sarah glanced awkwardly between them and then asked, “Is it just me? Or is anyone else starving?”

While John searched helplessly for food in their barren fridge, Abbie watched Sherlock work. He didn’t seem to mind her presence as much as Sarah’s put him on edge. Although, Abbie knew by now to shut it when Sherlock was working, and Sarah kept asking questions.

“So. This is what you do? You and John?’ Sarah asked. Sherlock gave no response. “You solve puzzles. For a living.”

“Consulting detective,” the impatience was apparent in his voice.

“Ah. What are all these squiggles?” She looked over his shoulder at what Sherlock was writing— the numbers from the photograph.

“They’re numbers. Written in an ancient Chinese dialect.”

“Of course. Yes. Should have known that.” Sarah teased.

Abbie kept staring at them, though. They all meant something— she just couldn’t figure out what though. She was usually so good at ciphers, but they were usually in English. She felt the eureka moment on the tip of her tongue. And then…

“Each pair of numbers is a word!” She gasped.

Sherlock looked up and gave her a quizzical look. “How did you know?”

“The two words are translated here.” She held up a print-out Dimmock brought back from the library in the evidence bag. On it were the eighteen symbols grouped in nine pairs, and underneath the first two number pairs, words were written. “Nine” and “Mill.”

John finally came in with a tray of snacks Mrs. Hudson had come up with, but she was gone now.

“Soo Lin started translating the code for us at the museum, but we didn’t see us.”

“What’s ‘Nine Mill’ mean?” Abbie asked.

“Maybe it means ‘million?’” John suggested.

“Nine million quid… For what though?” Sherlock bolted for the door.

“Where are you going?”

“To the museum. The Restoration Office— we must have been staring at it.”

“What?” John had a hard time following.

“The book, John, the book! The key to cracking the cipher! Soo Lin used it to do this. Whilst you and I were running round the galleries she started to translate the code. That book is in her office!” And then he was gone.

Abbie waited with John and Sarah for their take out until her phone rang— it was Dimmock.

“Shit. You didn’t mention to Dimmock that I was with you, did you?”

“No,” John said.

“I have to go. Don’t do anything exciting without me, okay?” She waved goodbye to both of them before answering her phone and leaving the flat. On her way to the tube, a man dressed in all black passed her, but she thought nothing of it.

-

Hours later, Abbie was in a car with Dimmock heading to Kingsway Tunnel in Holborn to find a very distressed Sarah and a Sherlock and John, having escaped death. An ambulance carted off the dead bodies while another EMT draped a blanket over Sarah’s shoulders.

Dimmock had found out Abbie was with John and Sherlock, and he wasn’t happy. He called Sherlock a “lucky vigilante” and a police officer shouldn’t be aiding one. No doubt Abbie would lose all chances of an official spot in Scotland Yard by Monday morning, but she started the case, and now she had to finish it.

“I have high hopes for you, Inspector. A glittering career,” Sherlock told Dimmock when he and John reached him. Then he turned to Abbie, who had her head hung low. “It would not be fair, however, to fail to mention the help I received from your partner, Miss Coleman. Scotland Yard would be extremely lucky to have her.”

Abbie’s head snapped up just in time to see Sherlock smirking and walking away.

-

Abbie took the tube home that night— back to Greg’s flat. She was too exhausted to go to her boyfriend’s flat. When she entered the dark flat, the only light she saw was coming from the back garden, which was almost never on. She quickly went to her room to change, and then donned her dressing gown to investigate.

Mycroft was sitting outside on a low garden wall smoking a cigarette. He too was in his dressing gown and looked… soft. He was tired, must have woken up and not been able to fall back asleep, or maybe he hadn’t fallen asleep at all yet.

“Hi, stranger…” Abbie said as she slid open the back door.

Mycroft jumped ever so slightly and then smiled. “Young lady, do you know what time it is?” He teased.

“Hope you haven’t been waiting up for me,” she teased right back and sat next to him.

“Actually, I have.” He took another huff of his cigarette. “When Gregory came home and said you and Detective Inspector Dimmock had been called out to Holborn, I…”

“Got worried? Wait, _really?_ ”

He nodded. “So how was it?”

“You didn’t warn me that your assistant was drop-dead _gorgeous_ , Mycroft,” she teased. “Jesus, I think I had a panic; I don’t even remember much of the conversation.”

He smirked, “I hope she wasn’t too invasive.”

“I honestly can’t remember. I sorta blacked out. I could have told her my debit card number, I don’t know.”

“She’s very protective of me.”

“Good. It’s good to have someone who’s always looking out for you.”

“How did the case go though? I heard some details…”

She sighed. “I will be very surprised if I am still allowed even _in_ Scotland Yard on Monday…”

“Why’s that?”

“I got caught… Can I try that?” She gestured toward his cigarette.

“I thought you didn’t smoke.” Still, he handed it over.

“I don’t.” She inhaled deeply, probably too deep, and ended up coughing a bit after the first huff. She took a few more, smoother this time, before handing it back.

“I think you may find yourself surprised, but for the opposite reason,” he told her.

“G-d, I hope you’re right.”

They stayed like that, sitting in silence for a while, passing back and forth that single cigarette, before Abbie leaned closer and placed her head on his shoulder.

_Please be right._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Come hang out with me on [Twitter](http://www.twitter.com/EmilieCrossan1) @EmilieCrossan1


	4. The One With the Day Off

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mycroft has the day off from work-- a blessing from Anthea. With Greg at the Yard finishing up some last-minute preparations for a trial, he and Abbie figure out what to do with the day.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I love this chapter so much because it establishes Abbie and Mycroft's friendship. 
> 
> TW// mentions of injuries, scars, and abuse

Abbie finished writing the day’s events in her journal before she passed out and slept until late the next morning with the agenda to do nothing at all. She reached for her duffle on the floor and blindly searched for her several bottles of vitamins that she had to take twice daily and gulped them down with the glass of water on the bedside table. She rolled out of bed, rubbing the sleep from her eyes, before going out into the hallway. The door to the study was open, so she checked there first.

“Mornin’,” she grumbled as she leaned against the doorframe.

“Good morning,” Mycroft said without looking up from whatever he was typing on his laptop. “How did you sleep?”

“Like a rock,” she stretched a little until an audible pop came from her back. “Where’s Greg? Did he have to go in again?”

“Yes, just some last-minute preparations before the trial on Monday.”

Abbie nodded, “Do you also have to work today?”

“I’m actually just finishing up what it was I had to do.”

She nodded some more. _I should probably go. I’ve probably overstayed my welcome as it is. Mycroft surely just wants a day to himself. And Quincy… Well, I guess I could just walk around the city for the day._

“Abigail?” Mycroft asked, taking her out of her thoughts.

“Hm? Sorry, I was thinking. Erm, I should probably… go. I mean, how often do you actually get a day off? I’m sure you have other plans.”

“Actually, I don’t. With Gregory at work, I especially don’t exactly know what to do with myself. I was hoping you knew.” He offered a smile.

“ _Me?_ I— Well, I guess we could... You like movies, right? Find us some to watch; I don’t care what they’re about, I’m sure you’ll pick good ones. I’ll go out and get snacks.” She grinned and turned toward the door, and then turned back. “I need to put on real people clothes. What types of snacks do you like?”

“I don’t _snack_ , Abigail, I’m on a diet.”

She tutted, “What diet? You look great! Besides, one day isn’t going to make a difference. So? Salty? Sweet? What flavor of ice cream?”

“Abigail—“

“I’ll just surprise you then.”

-

An hour later, Abbie came back with grocery bags full of nothing with nutritional value. She put the ice cream— chocolate and mint chocolate chip— in the freezer, but set the rest of the things on the counter.

“And what do you propose we eat for dinner?” Mycroft asked, scanning the array of junk food. He hadn’t eaten like this since he was a teenager.

“Pizza, duh,” she smirked and grabbed a couple bags of crisps without really paying attention to what they were. “Now, go get changed into whatever you lounge in. No reason for you to be dressed to the nine.”

Mycroft rolled his eyes, but still went upstairs to change. He came back downstairs in joggers and an old t-shirt. “I am going to regret this later.”

“You run, don’t you? You and I can go running tomorrow morning, I promise. So what movies did you pick out?” She looked at the pile on the coffee table in the sitting room.

Suddenly, he felt self-conscious of his selection, “I—“

“Period dramas? Perfect!” She grinned. She plopped down on the sofa. “C’mon.”

“Gregory doesn’t always enjoy watching them with me...” He slowly settled into the sofa.

“Well, _I_ for one love them.”

-

Twenty minutes into _Emma_ and Abbie asked, “Is that one of Greg’s shirts?”

Mycroft glanced down at the old band t-shirt he was wearing just to make sure. “Actually, no. It’s mine.”

“But... you listen to...?” She set down the bag and turned so she faced Mycroft with her legs crossed. “What?”

“There is a lot that most people don’t know about me,” he said.

“Well, can you tell me?”

“... Only is you swear to secrecy.”

“Pfft. Who am I going to tell? You’re my only friends. But, just to be sure,” she stuck out her pinky finger, “I’ll pinky promise.”

Mycroft of course knew what a pink promise was, it’s just it had been years since he’s done one. So when Abbie impatiently hooks her finger around his, it caught him off guard, and then there was that mischievous look she gave him. She won’t tell another soul, but she’s going to find out everything Mycroft is willing to tell her.

“Start from the beginning,” she said. “What was it like growing up with Sherlock?”

“Horrid. Next?”

“No, no! C’mon, it mustn’t've been all that bad.”

He sighed. “I am seven years older than him. By the time he was old enough to even start being fun, I was getting ready to go off to Uni.”

“But you _did_ have fun?”

“I wouldn’t necessarily call our childhood that. Our parents loved us, there’s no doubt about that. And with age, they’ve only gotten more emotional with us, especially Mummy. But as children, we were almost treated like small adults. We were expected to be emotionally mature, be the best at everything we did, be... just be perfect, I suppose.”

“So... you weren’t allowed to run outside and play?”

“I wasn’t. They were a bit more lenient toward Sherlock. He’d run around playing pirates.” Abbie grinned. “Do _not_ tell him I told you that.”

“I told you, my lips are sealed. Besides, Lucy and I wanted to be princesses growing up. We were going to both marry William and Harry. Guess she missed her shot.”

“I could introduce you to Prince Harry if you’re still interested,” he suggested.

“Stop, I’ll actually take you up on it!” She laughed. “Speaking of, don’t think I’m not going to ask you a million questions about your job, too. Continue!”

He sighed, “Our parents would move us to the flat in London during the school year. I really had no interest in living in the dormitories at school, and Sherlock being much younger than me, I wanted to still have the opportunity to spend time with him. Though with school and the many societies I was a part of, I really didn’t have much time for anything.”

“Wait, what school did you go to?”

“Westminster School.”

Abbie gasped and her face light up. “No way! Lucy and I went there too! We got in on scholarships and because we were orphans, but we went there! Oh my god!”

Mycroft huffed out a laugh. He had known Abbie went to the same secondary school as he, but never told her for this exact reason: to see her reaction.

She was practically bouncing in her spot on the sofa, rambling on. “What house were you in? I was in Grant. Lucy was in Busby’s. She got in first and they offered her a full scholarship because of her previous grades and on a music scholarship as well. She played the flute. Her playing flute makes a lot of sense. She made a deal with the Headmaster that I had to be offered a scholarship too, but I got in on academic, music, and sport. They made Lucy play a sport too, so she played tennis. It was mostly because she liked the uniform so much. I ran track, and I was on the shooting team too! And I played the violin. Sherlock played the violin too! _I remember now!_ The band director used to talk about the Holmes brothers, but they didn’t use your names, just Mr. and Mr. Holmes, all posh like. What did you play in the orchestra? Were you and Sherlock in the same house?”

“Abigail. Abigail, slow down!” He smiled.

“Sorry,” she covered her mouth with her hand, her eyes sparkling.

“Sherlock and I were both in College House. I played the cello. They also made me join a sports team, so I chose fencing. Sherlock flat out refused.” he answered her slowly.

Abbie spoke a little more calmly this time. “I did theatre, too, and Lucy and I were both in the choir. She’s only a few years younger than Sherlock, but they must have just missed each other. Could you _imagine_ if they had met? Wait, that means Greg went there too?”

He nodded, “I believe Gregory got in with a sports scholarship. Although he had good enough grades, they weren’t the best. He was captain of the football team.”

“Ooh, a jock! You _have_ to tell me how you two met. Please?”

“You mean Gregory hasn’t already told you?”

She shook her head. “Please, Mycroft?”

“I don’t see why you’re so interested in—“

“Mycroft!”

“Fine, fine! I—“

“Wait, hold on,” she got up and ran to her bedroom.

“All of that nagging and now you want me to wait?”

She emerged, now holding a journal. “Yes!” She situated herself back on the sofa with a smug look as she opened the journal to a new page and wrote something at the top.

“What is that?”

“It’s my journal. I want to remember this story, so I have to write it down. And so you don’t have to tell me over and over again.”

“You...”

“I thought I already explained this to you? Or maybe I didn’t?”

“Told me what?”

“That’s not in the ‘special file’ you have on me?” She smirked. “I have anterograde amnesia. I have to write everything down or else I’ll forget it. So...” she scribbled. “Everything we’ve talked about so far, I should write down, in case you ever mention it again or something.”

 _Anterograde amnesia. That made sense._ But he knew that. Everything was in her file, and yet he apparently only knew half the story. Yes, he knew she suffered from memory loss, but he didn’t know how she had dealt with it. He couldn’t imagine; everything he did depended on his perfect memory and it staying intact. He’s seen her write incessantly in a notebook before, but he thought it was just her being thorough. Greg had mentioned she wrote everything down during cases, but that she was just making sure she got every detail. He didn’t realize she had counted on those writings.

“You’re probably wondering how I’ve made it this far in life with amnesia,” she was still writing. She was writing down everything— every word— verbatim.

“First, I’m wondering how you got anterograde amnesia in the first place. Second is why you haven’t told Gregory. That question comes third.”

She stopped writing and looked up. “I was asleep in the car, sitting on the driver's side in the back seat, and a drunk driver hit our car. My father died on impact, Lucy only got some cuts and bruises and a sprained wrist, and I have scars all up my side and head trauma.” She said it as if she had said those lines a thousand times before.

“See?” She pulled up the sleeve of her shirt to show the many silvered scars that littered her arm. “They’re all over my side and leg too. Broke my leg and my arm. So not _only_ did I have to go through physical therapy for head trauma and amnesia, but also for my arm and leg. I was nine, so maybe it was a good thing I was so young and resilient. Here, give me your hand.”

She held out her own to take Mycroft’s and raise his fingers to her hair. Two large scars ran across her skull. Her hair had thankfully grown back in a way that covered the scars and the weird bald patches that came with them, but they were still there. And sometimes they hurt after all these years. And sometimes her hairbrush scratched them wrong and she cried silent tears on her bathroom floor until the pain subsided.And sometimes her boyfriend grabbed a fist full of the hair around them and yanked on the sensitive flesh. But she was fine.

“So, your next question, why didn’t I tell Greg. I don’t tell anybody. When I do, they look at me differently. I get enough pity being an orphan, I don’t want pity for being an orphan who can’t remember anything. Me having memory loss is in my file that Greg has definitely seen. He’s never mentioned it though, and I don’t think he knows how bad it is. Let him think I just take really good notes. That’s how I did so well in the academy, after all.”

“So you are able to form new memories, then.”

“Yes... and no. It’s not like every night I go to sleep and my mind resets to the day of the accident. But it _is_ really hard for me to retain new memories. So I write them down, and every morning I read through the past couple of entries to refresh myself. Sometimes memories come back just by reading, sometimes I read something and it’s like it’s the first time hearing these things.”

“Like a novel, only the novel is about you, written by you.”

“Exactly. It’s scary sometimes... or upsetting. Frustrating. I’m frustrated I can’t remember certain things because I forgot to write them down. Like inside jokes. People at the Yard bring something up they said a week ago and I have no idea what they’re talking about. Enough about me, though.” She grinned and sat up a bit. “Start at the beginning.”

“The beginning of what?”

“Oh, you and Greg!” She nudged his leg with her foot. “Spare no details! ... Spare _some_ details.”

“Good lord, okay... We were sixteen,” he watched as she began writing. “We were in several classes together, the core ones that is. We had since we started there and I believe that we always _knew_ of each other, just never spoke to one another. He, as I said, played football, I was on the fencing team, and in the orchestra, and on the debate team, and every other club that is embarrassing to admit.”

“Hey, orchestra was _not_ lame!”

“Yes, it was. Anyway, Gregory and I obviously had very different... social circles. I didn’t even eat in with everyone at lunch, I usually went to the library. I would sit alone and study and then continue on with my classes. I never hung around after extracurriculars or was invited anywhere. But I had had a rather massive crush on Greg since our first year. But I hadn’t yet dropped my weight, that was... I was 15 and actually avoided him at all costs because of it. And then one day... Gregory came into the library during lunch. He sat across from me and asked me to smile. When I asked him why he just kept insisting that I smile. I still have no clue why he thought that was a good ice breaker, but he only had to flash that brilliant grin of his once before I was smiling back.”

Abbie practically melted in her seat. “Aww! That’s adorable!”

“Yes,” the blush that had formed when he began the story started to deepen. “Well, after that, he just started... talking. As if he was genuinely interested in my life, what I was doing, what I was studying. We were hushed multiple times by the librarian but I just couldn’t believe that Gregory Lestrade had actually chosen to speak to _me_. I thought, at first, that he was trying to get something out of me. But he never asked. And then he returned the next day, and that turned into next week and the week after. Finally, when I asked him why he had come to the library all of a sudden, he said he had seen me sitting alone for years. He always thought I looked like I could use some company... a friend... so he ditched his friends to just come to sit and talk with me.”

“Must have been some friends if he just ditched them...”

“One of them was actually Michael Dimmock.”

“Wait, you’re shitting me!” She exclaimed. “The mouth-breather I had to work with?”

Mycroft burst out laughing, “I’m telling Gregory you called him a mouth-breather. But yes, the same Michael Dimmock. He actually went to school for finance, but when it didn’t work out for him, he joined the academy years after Gregory. I still think Michael is bitter about Gregory being his boss so-to-speak when all during our years in school, Michael bossed Gregory around.”

“He’s a dick,” Abbie rolled her eyes. “Okay, so when did you and Greg finally get together? Like, who made the first move?”

“He did. He asked me if I could help him find a book. He brought me to a stack of bookshelves far back in the library, where almost no one could see us. I knew something was strange because the books were old Latin scriptures, and Gregory’s Latin is not good enough to so much as read a sentence in Latin. Well, he asked me a question and when I turned my head, he kissed me. It was chaste and soft. And then he asked if he could kiss me again and... well, I’m sure you can guess what happened next.” He waved his hand as if to brush it off.

“Only makes sense that you two would have your first kiss in the bloody Latin section!”

“We almost got caught... Almost got caught a few times. We had decided it was best to keep our relationship to ourselves for the time being. Neither of us was out yet. Gregory always said that it would not have been a problem with his family, but he wasn’t sure how his friends would have taken it. And I... well, relationships, nevertheless gay relationships, were not in my parents’ life plan for myself.”

“And you managed to keep it a secret all that time?”

Mycroft nodded. “Yes. He was a bit of a bad influence on me. I started smoking, started listening to music other than classical, started dressing differently.” He motioned to his t-shirt. “However, we didn’t date for very long. We were together until we were nineteen, and then things got complicated. I went to Oxford and Gregory joined the academy... I was an idiot and told him I simply didn’t have any time for a relationship, so we broke up.”

“For how long?”

“Eleven years...”

“Wait, what? _Eleven years_?!”

“Well, Gregory joined the Police and I graduated from Oxford and then... did some traveling. Fieldwork.”

He watched Abbie write down, ‘Field Work — Spy?’

“Gregory met a woman named Natalie. They married when Gregory was twenty-seven. It was short-lived, though. Natalie was absolutely horrid to him, and it turns out she was cheating on him. Sherlock had just started following the Yard’s activity, his way of keeping his mind occupied enough to stay off drugs—“

“— coming back to that!”

“— and Gregory, knowing he was my younger brother, let Sherlock help solve their cases. It was Sherlock who told him that Natalie was having an affair. At first, Gregory didn’t believe him, but one night he confronted her, and then he showed up at my doorstep... The rest is history.”

Abbie finished writing and stretched her hand. “That’s so romantic...” her expression was soft. “That was how long ago?”

“Four years,” he offered a shy smile.

Abbie looked through her journal. “So Sherlock wanted to be a pirate?”

“Yes. Foolish, isn’t it?”

“No,” she grinned. “You’re telling me you didn’t want to be something... different when you were growing up? You always wanted to be a spy?”

“Not a spy, Abigail.”

“No, but you used to,” her eyes glistened. “You weren’t... doing ‘fieldwork’ by sitting at a desk, trying to climb your way up the ladder in the politician world, no. At least not in the orthodox way. You had to do ‘fieldwork’ before you could get to where you are now because where you are now is MI6.”

Mycroft blinked, shocked. “How...”

“Your leg is hurt, too. A bad break like that doesn’t happen by working in an office.”

“I don’t believe I told you that...”

“You didn’t. But I can just tell. When you’re standing still for too long, you lean to one side. And your umbrella isn’t just an umbrella, is it? Even the way you’re sitting now, I can tell your leg is starting to stiffen up.”

Mycroft shifted on the sofa. “You... how did you do that?”

“Do what?”

“Figure all of that out.”

Abbie’s face turned serious. “What do you mean? You and Sherlock do it all of the time. I just... Sherlock said to observe. Did I do it wrong?”

“No, no... You were correct. MI6, though?”

“It can be the only logical explanation. You don’t tell anyone what it is exactly that you do, even Greg. So, you must be doing... _something_ with international security, or trade, or something. Means you were MI5 before this.”

“And how do you know that?”

“Oh. I was trained by an ex-MI5 agent.”

“I’m sorry, you were _trained_ by MI5?”

“No! _An_ MI5 agent! There’s an ‘an’ at the front there. He helped me train for the academy.”

“And who is this MI5 agent?”

“Christopher, my brother-in-law. He was an MI5 agent when he met Lucy. Well, he had just left MI5. He did something with computers, but I think something happened and he had to leave and retrain. But he offered to train me for the Academy.”

Mycroft just stared at her. _She wasn’t lying. Abbie was almost incapable of lying, she had a tell, she fiddled with her fingers, and she was not doing that. She was completely serious._

And Mycroft was realizing just how much he had underestimated the girl.

-

Abbie occasionally came back to something Mycroft said for the rest of the afternoon. He told her about Sherlock, and his past with drugs. She told him about living at her aunt’s, and how much she hated it. He finally gave in and told Abbie as much as he could about his “fieldwork.” He didn’t tell her how exactly he got injured, just that he did, and he was pulled. But he hated it anyway, and didn’t do well with death or blood as they had hoped he did. They traded stories in between films, until Mycroft felt that he had told her way more than he should have. But she listened— genuinely listened— and cared. She reminded him of Gregory that way, how he would just sit for hours and listen to Mycroft talk. 

Mycroft didn’t pay much attention to whatever film they were watching, he was going over Abbie’s file in his head. He did not remember seeing anything about any relation to the MI5. That would usually be something recorded and something Mycroft remembered. She was an orphan, she went to Westminster, he knew all of her extracurricular activities, he knew all of her marks in the Academy. There was nothing beyond that. Nothing.

“You never answered my question from before,” she said, breaking the silence.

“And what was that?”

“What did you _really_ want to be when you grew up?”

Mycroft sighed. “An artist. I... enjoy sketching.”

Abbie smiled. “Do you still sketch?”

“Occasionally,” he answered. “Mostly out of boredom. I’ll sketch whatever is on the table at meetings, or my desk. I don’t sketch people as often as I used to.”

“Will you show me your sketches sometime?”

“If you wish. Now you answer the question. Did you always want to be a police officer?”

“No,” she said. “I wanted to do something in the arts, as well. Maybe I’d be a writer or an actor. I really did enjoy the theatre in school, maybe I’d be on West End now.”

“You can sing?” Mycroft asked.

“Mhm,” she nodded.

“ _Well_?”

Abbie scoffed. “You can’t judge my singing based on whatever I belt out in the shower. It doesn’t count.”

“Sing then.”

“Not today. I need music. Besides,” she turned her head toward him. “I haven’t sung— like really sung— since seventh year. Westminster did _Les Miserables_ spring term.”

“And what part did you have?”

“Fantine,” she said matter of factly and turned her attention back to the Telly.

 _Fantine. She played Fantine_. Mycroft remembered it. He remembered being pressured into going to a Westminster alumni event that involved watching the spring term musical production. He remembered pretending to meet Greg there as if they were old friends catching up, and sitting together in the audience. He remembered trying to look bored and unimpressed, but for a school production, it was pretty damned good. He felt a lot better knowing his alumni donations went to the arts. He remembered nothing much about the other performances, but he remembered Fantine’s. She received a standing ovation for “I Dreamed A Dream;” there was not a dry eye in the audience, and neither were hers. The actress had managed to belt her lyrics through sobs. And by Fantine’s death, Mycroft had let a few tears slip in the dark as his hand reached for Greg’s. The actress had made several more performances throughout the production, as ensemble, but at the end, during “Epilogue,” when she came and took Jean Valjean’s hand all dressed in white, and Mycroft was completely mesmerized by her.

He said nothing of this to Abbie, though.

-

When Greg finally came home that night, he had to stop at the door and take in the view. There was a pizza box on the kitchen counter, as well as a scattering of all sorts of junk food. The coffee table in the sitting room was covered in empty crisp bags, and the credits of a film were rolling. Mycroft was half-asleep on the sofa, with Abbie tucked into his side, completely out. Out of everything, he was most surprised that Mycroft had actually permitted human contact.

Greg walked over to the sofa quietly and shook Mycroft awake. “Hey, I’m home,” he whispered.

Mycroft’s eyes fluttered open and he smiled gently. “Hello.”

“Did you have a relaxing day?”

“Yes, I suppose you could say that.”

“Good, you deserve some fun every once in a while.”

“Mm.” Mycroft shifted, then quickly became aware of the weight up against his side.

“Here, I’ve got her.” Greg gently nudged her. “C’mon, Abbie. Bed.”

Abbie groaned, not opening her eyes as Greg peeled her away from Mycroft, and she refused to stand.

“Abbie, get up, or I’ll carry you.”

“Fine,” she shifted, but only to hold her arms out, like a child.

Mycroft watched in disbelief as Greg scooped her up like she was nothing and carry her to her room. A moment later, he re-emerged and shut the door behind him. “So. I see you’ve eaten.”

Mycroft stood. “It was mostly Abbie, I assure you. There’s still some pizza left.”

“Oh, how thoughtful of you two,” Greg grinned and grabbed a slice. “What did you do all day?”

“Watched films, but not really,” Mycroft rubbed his eyes. “We mostly talked.”

“About?”

“Feels like we spoke about everything. I told her how we met... You really didn’t tell her the full story?”

“I figured you’d tell it better, anyway.”

“We... talked about school. She and her sister went to Westminster, you know?”

Greg nodded. “I do know.”

“She— Greg, I am going to tell you something, and I need you to not laugh.”

“Okay?” He raised a brow.

“I believe Abigail is a spy.”

Greg couldn’t really tell what made him bark out in laughter: the sheer ridiculousness of the statement, or how seriously Mycroft said it.

“Gregory!”

“Ssh! Myc, you cannot honestly believe that Abbie is a spy. You’re the one who is a spy, according to her. For who? Wouldn’t you know?”

“Apparently we do not know a lot about her! She was able to deduce my— well, part of my work. Do you know that a former MI5 agent trained her for the Academy?”

“Yes, I did know actually. I had to review her file recently and came across the footage of her final tests. There’s no way she learned all of that just in the Academy, and I believe she mentioned it to me before that her sister married a former agent. And Abbie’s not an idiot, Myc. She’s smart enough— and probably patient enough— to figure out how it is you and Sherlock do that thing that you do.”

“Well, do you remember that alumni event we had to go to Westminster? And see the school production?”

“And Abbie was in it. Yes, Myc, I remember. I didn’t get to say hello to Abbie, but I saw her older sister there.”

“You don’t... find it odd that our paths kept crossing?”

“Okay, maybe you’ve had too much junk food today. Mycroft, that’s called Serendipity.”

“The universe is rarely so lazy, Gregory.”

“That’s about _coincidences_ , Myc, not Serendipity. Serendipity is me being called to their mother’s flat years ago, not seeing each other until a few months ago, and me tucking her into bed tonight.”

“And what does that _mean_?”

Greg thought a moment. “It is very unlazy of the universe. That kid is right where she needs to be.” Mycroft gave him a flash of disbelief. “You can’t tell me you don’t absolutely adore her, Myc.”

He sighed. “I... do. She’s a—“

“— a great kid.”

“Yes.” Mycroft smiled slightly. “She is.”

“I told you you’d love her,” Greg winked. “Now c’mon. I’ve gotta get some sleep, and so do you.”

“I feel I need to sleep off whatever I put into my body,” Mycroft said as he followed Greg upstairs. “But that could take weeks.”

“Eh, you needed a day to just veg.”

“Veg is all I’ll be eating from now on, thank you.”

“Mhm. Sure, Myc.” Greg rolled his eyes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In the meantime, come hang out with me on [Twitter](http://www.twitter.com/EmilieCrossan1) @EmilieCrossan1


	5. The One Where Everything Breaks

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW// This chapter contains description of abuse.

A week had gone by since Abbie had officially become Constable Coleman. She would be exclusive to Lestrade’s division at Scotland Yard and work her way up from there. 

It had come as a surprise only to Abbie, who truly believed that when she was called into Greg’s Super’s office that Monday morning, she was going to be terminated, just as she had feared. Instead, the Super had praised her for all of her diligence the past two months, and read aloud not only a letter of recommendation from Lestrade and Dimmock but Sherlock Holmes himself. 

“Now, if Sherlock Holmes is going to take the time out of his day to sing your praises, Coleman, I would be the biggest bloody idiot in London not to bring you on.”

Abbie thanked him, and Greg, and even Dimmock on her way out, and definitely did _not_ cry in the car park as she sent a text to Sherlock thanking him as well. 

Things were going brilliantly. Quincy had actually complimented her, and so she had spent more time at his flat. He was kind and caring and actually affectionate. And Abbie was relishing in all of the positive attention to realize just how much of a red flag that was. 

And she was relishing in all of the positive attention from everyone at Scotland Yard, with getting her own desk finally— one across from Donovan— and the other members of Scotland Yard starting to remember her name, that she almost didn’t realize one morning when Greg came in and his mood was entirely different from the day before. 

\- The Previous Night -

“Myc?” Greg asked, putting the dishes in the sink. 

“Yes?”

“I need to talk to you about something. It’s serious.”

Mycroft looked at Greg’s expression and then took a seat at the table. “What is it?”

Greg took a deep breath, then said, “I think I’m... ready to come out.” Mycroft just said nothing. “We’ve been together for four years now. We practically live together unofficially. I see no reason why we shouldn’t... start telling people.”

“But, I do, Gregory,” Mycroft said, somberly. 

“What do you mean?”

“Do you honestly believe that if we were to make our relationship public, there would be no backlash?”

“Well, of course, there would be, but—“

“Exactly. ‘Of course, there would be.’ In any scenario, there is no possibility of people just leaving us alone. I’m a civil servant, and our relationship would immediately become new politician gossip. And if you weren’t looked at differently at Scotland Yard already, surely you would for being in a relationship with someone in the government.”

“Mycroft, I don’t _care_ about that, though.”

“You say that now until it’s actually happening, and then you’ll regret it.”

“Darling, I could never regret it. This is _you_ , this is _us_.” Greg walked over to sit in the chair across from him and take his hand across the table. “Myc, we’ve been together four years now... I’m tired of hiding. I want to be able to tell my mum and sister about you. Tell Sherlock. And— and meet your parents. As your partner.”

At that, the panic behind Mycroft’s eyes began to shine through. He pulled his hand away and stood. “No. Absolutely not.” He crossed his arms. 

“Wait, why?”

“They cannot know. _Nobody_ can know, Gregory. It’s too…”

“Too what?” His voice had started to take a defensive tone. “Mycroft, I don’t want to be with someone who is just going to hide me.”

“I’m not hiding you! I don’t want to hide you. I’m hiding _me_!”

“We both know that’s bullshit, Mycroft. You’re so high up that you can silence anyone who says anything against you. What you really don’t want is people seeing you with... me.”

“Greg, that’s—“

“Forget it. Forget I even said anything.” Greg stood and made a point to walk around Mycroft, avoiding his gaze at all costs, and went upstairs. He heard no footsteps following him, just some leaving, and the front door shutting.

\- Present -

Abbie went in Greg’s office about halfway through the day, letting go of the assumption it had just been a bad morning. “Hey, erm, do you have a moment?”

Greg looked up from the paperwork he was doing and tried to put a neutral expression on his face. “Yes, sure. Is everything alright?”

“Want to go smoke?”

“You don’t smoke.”

“No, but you look like you need one.”

They walked down to the car park together, and when they finally got there and leaned against Greg’s car as Greg took out a cigarette and lit it, Abbie said, “Tell me what’s wrong. You look like someone’s kicked your puppy.”

“Abbie—“

“Greg. Tell me, and don’t lie.”

He took a long drag. “Mycroft and I had a fight.”

“About?”

“I... sort of got on him about coming out. I told him I was ready, and that I wanted to let everyone know that I was with him, and he was my person and I love him so much. And then... he started freaking out— panicking! Saying he couldn’t… that he couldn’t let people know about him— about us. I said I didn’t want to be with someone who hides me, and he said he wasn’t hiding me, he was hiding himself.” He took another long drag, completely filling his lungs. 

“... Can I speak frankly?”

“It depends.”

Abbie sighed. “Okay. Greg, you... you know Mycroft loves you, right?”

“I know! I _know_ that. But he cares too much about what other people think of him!”

“And think of the things that those people could do to him, to his career. We don’t know who Mycroft is in contact with on a daily, we don’t know their opinions of homosexuality.”

“We haven’t told anybody, though. You’re the first person we’ve told, and you took it fine! I mean, Anthea knows too. But we never actually ‘told’ Anthea, she sort of just figured it out and said nothing more about it.”

“Greg, I am just one person. And Anthea is just one other amazing person. Unfortunately, other people in this world are not as accepting.”

“I just—“ He scrubbed his hand down his face. “I _know_ it’s stupid! And I know I shouldn’t blame it on him, because he’s just being careful, but I got so... upset. And I blew up on him. And he left. And now he won’t answer my phone calls or texts or anything! I think he’s gone incommunicado.”

“Incommuni-what-o?”

“Incommuni _cado._ He occasionally has to do it for work. He shuts himself up in his house or on a trip and has absolutely zero communication with anyone. He shuts off his phone, he’s completely untraceable. He just works constantly, barely eats, seldom sleeps.”

“Sounds... awful.”

“He’s done it on purpose this time. So I can’t reach him. He knows it’s driving me insane.”

“He’ll come around, Greg...”

“I’m afraid he won’t this time...” he threw his cigarette to the ground and stomped it out. “What if I lost him?”

“You didn’t, Greg.” Abbie reached over and grabbed Greg’s hand and gave it a quick squeeze. “He’s just... upset. And needs some time to think. He’ll come around. Soon.” She gave him a reassuring smile. 

And she continued to give him a reassuring smile every time she saw Greg for the next four days. _I really need to stop promising things for other people._

Mycroft still had not returned any of Greg’s calls or texts, and even Abbie started to try and contact him, but to no avail. And each day, Greg looked worse, he was always on edge, and his temper short. He was staying later and working more.

Abbie just continued to call Mycroft. She asked Sherlock if he knew where he was, but he didn’t and then asked why Abbie would want to know. 

She dialed his number again as she stepped into her flat one evening after a long day at work. They had been working on a case— a relatively small one— but still one that required everyone to stay later than normal. 

She knew Quincy was home, but in their bedroom, and she hoped he stayed there. She noticed crumbs on the counter and a few cupboards open and felt like she was missing something. It was probably because she was so hungry.

Quincy's attitude had shifted drastically— as it usually did— and now he was back to his old self. Constantly jumping down Abbie's throat for no reason, belittling her, trying to control her. He had gone back to controlling what and how much she ate. He would come home from work earlier than Abbie, eat almost everything in the flat, and leave Abbie with less than a serving size of food. When she did find something, he’d tell her she was eating too much and she was going to get fat. Tonight, it looked like there was nothing left there for her to eat. 

The call went right to voicemail. “Myc, hey, it’s Abbie. Again.” She said into her phone as she took her coat off and hung it up. “I don’t know if your phone is even _on_ to be receiving all of my calls, but if it is, please call me back. Or call Greg back. We’re worried. I just don’t know what to do, and Greg... he’s not doing so well. You can’t... you can’t keep doing this, Myc. Please, just talk to him. Or me. Erm, I’m gonna go now, okay? Bye.” She hung up from voicemail and set her phone down on the counter and sighed. 

Quincy emerged from their bedroom. He was tall and lean, had dark wavy hair and light eyes. He worked in finance and prided himself on his work. He was the “breadwinner.” He had somehow gotten a job without even graduating from school, because he was kicked out his sixth year, and never went to Uni, but sure, _he_ was the money maker. 

“Who was that?” He asked. 

“That was... me leaving another message for a friend who hasn’t answered me in a few days. I’m starting to get worried.”

“Did you pick up the groceries?” He asked, completely ignoring what she had said. 

“Shit! I’m sorry, I forgot.”

“Of course you ‘forgot.’” He mumbled under his breath. 

“Pardon?”

“I said, ‘Of course you fucking forgot!’ Is your fucking hearing damaged too?”

Abbie flinched. “I—I’m sorry, okay? It was a really long day. I don’t think I remembered to write it down. Besides,” she looked at the clock. “No place is open, anyway. How long have you been home? Couldn’t you have run out and gotten them?”

“You expect me to work all day _and_ do the shopping?” 

She blinked. “I work all day, too, you know. And today I had to stay especially late so we could try and solve this case we’re working on.” 

“That’s your excuse, huh?”

“My excuse for _what_ , Quincy?”

“That you’re sleeping with your boss!”

“Ha!” Abbie ran a hand through her hair. “That has got to be the most fucking _ridiculous_ thing you’ve ever said. Me, sleeping with my boss, who is gay!”

“You’re always spending time with him outside of work, staying over his!”

“It’s easier for when we work late nights and early mornings!”

“Whatever, Abbie.” He turned and made his way for the bedroom. “Dumb fucking cunt, can’t even remember to do the one thing I ask with your stupid fucking brain.”

“That’s not fair!” She went to follow him, but he turned around and caught her by the shoulder. 

The next thing Abbie knew, she was falling to her knees, and intense pain in her diaphragm and the wind knocked out of her lungs. 

“Go get me some fucking food, bitch.” He grabbed her phone from the counter and threw it to the ground and shattered it before going into the bedroom. Abbie heard the door lock in between her gasps for air. 

It hurt. It hurt like there was a fire inside her chest. It hurt like she was drowning, but not in water. She couldn’t get a breath in. She was forced to take shallow breaths, curled up on the kitchen floor until she could find relief. She didn’t know how long she spent on the floor. She didn’t think to look at the clock but did look out the window. It had started to pour. 

She took in a deep breath and wheezed, and then coughed. She crawled over to the bedroom door. It was still locked and the Telly was on inside and playing loud. Too loud for her to be heard over. 

She finally managed to stand up, leaving her shattered phone on the floor. She got a little light-headed when she straightened up. 

_Food, Abbie, get some food. You’re starving._ She checked the cupboards, and then the fridge. _Nothing. Only a jar of peanut butter._ She was allergic to peanuts. _Can’t have that._

_Call someone. No, you can’t call anyone. Greg... no you can’t go to Greg’s, he’s going through a lot. Sherlock? What will he do? Myc... go to Myc. Find Myc._

_Where does Myc live? Belgravia... he said Belgravia once. How many houses could there be?_

“Myc...” she said to herself as she grabbed a jacket. She didn’t realize it was just a hooded sweatshirt, not suitable for the cold and the rain. “Shoes...” she put on trainers. 

She should have called a cab, should have gone into the street and held her hand out. But she realized her wallet was in her other coat. And so she started running. 

Running in the cold rain, trying not to think of the pain, trying not to think of how her boyfriend had just hit her and left her there. She just thought about running and getting to Belgravia. 

Every person she passed gave her strange looks. She was soaked through her clothes, and her fingers were so cold, they were numb. She just kept running. She didn’t stop until she had made her way from East London to Mycroft. 

She felt weak and hollow. She felt dissociated, and yet not; her legs were starting to shake, and her teeth chatter. 

She ran up and down a few streets, looking for a house Mycroft Holmes might live in. And then she came across a house with a security guard standing outside, and an intercom system, and she thought, _That must be Myc!_

“Mycroft?” She asked the guard as she approached the gate. 

“Can I help you?”

“M-Mycroft Holmes. I n-need to s-s-speak with him.”

“Who are you?”

“Please just let me!”

“I need your name, ma’am!”

“Mycroft!” She started yelling. “Mycroft!” It hurt to yell. It hurt to breathe. 

The guard spoke into a walkie-talkie, telling whoever was on the other side that a girl demanded she speak with Mycroft, and she claimed to know him. The door eventually opened, but it wasn’t Mycroft. It was Anthea. “Abbie?”

“A-Anthea, I need to see Myc...”

“Jesus. Mark, let her in!” The guard— Mark— unlocked the small gate for her and let her through. She waddled in, her legs still wobbly. “Abbie, your lips are blue! Get inside!”

“I-I need to s-see Mycroft.” She was shivering violently now. 

“Mycroft!” Anthea called for him. “Here, come stand in front of the fire.” Anthea directed her into the reception room in front of a roaring fireplace. 

“I’m d-dripping...”

“That’s okay, I’ll get some towels. Mycroft!” Anthea ran down the hall, leaving Abbie to tremble in front of the fire and drip all over the floor.

“What are you yelling about, Anthea, I’m— Fucking Christ, Abigail!”

“M-Myc...”

“You’re soaked! And practically blue! What happened?”

“I-I needed to see you... You w-weren’t... answering Greg. O-or me.”

“I was—“

“I d-didn't know what to do!” That last one came out as a wheeze. _Why am I not warming up? I feel so weak, and I’m so hungry._

“Abigail, why are you here? Where did you run from? Gregory’s?”

She shook her head slightly. “M-my flat.”

“Your... Did you run here from East London? Are you insane, Abigail? It’s pouring outside, and it’s freezing, and you decide to run across London wearing such thin clothing? No wonder why your teeth won’t stop chattering!”

“Myc...” _I feel faint._

“Did Gregory put you up to this? Huh?”

“Myc...” _I am going to faint._

“We’re you not thinking at all, Abigail? You just went and did it!”

“My...” the world around her became black, and she felt herself let go and fall forward. And then nothing. 

“Oh. Oh my god. Anthea! I need a car! Now!” An ambulance would take too long.

Anthea was there with the towels in a second, handing them to Mycroft as she dialed for a car. 

Mycroft wrapped the towels around Abbie and checked her pulse. It was there, but low. And she was cold as ice. “Stupid bloody girl...” he scooped her up, just as Greg did that one night as if she was nothing. Mycroft was not one to do the heavy lifting, so the amount of ease he lifted her with was troubling. 

“The car will be here any minute,” Anthea said and grabbed his coat and umbrella. When she got the notification, she walked them out to the car, holding the umbrella above them as Mycroft got into the car, still holding Abbie. 

“Keep her close, okay?” Anthea said. “Your body heat should help warm her up. And try to dry her off.” She folded his umbrella and placed it in the car. “I will call the A&E and let them know you will be arriving soon.”

“Thank you, Anthea.” He pulled Abbie as close as he could to himself, trying not to think about the cold water soaking his clothes as well. “And one more thing?”

“Yes sir?”

“Call Gregory.”

Anthea nodded. “Now go.” She shut the car door and they were off. 

Mycroft spent the ride— too long of a ride, in his opinion— watching Abbie. He was constantly checking to see if she was breathing, or checking her pulse. Her breathing felt labored, and her pulse was still low. 

“Stay with me,” he whispered. “Stay with me, Abbie. We’re almost there.”

Mycroft’s driver pulled up to the A&E entrance and quickly got out to open the car door. Holding Abbie close, he got out and walked as quickly as he could with her in his arms through the doors. There were nurses there waiting with a stretcher. 

“We’ve got her, Mr. Holmes,” one of the nurses said as she helped him lay her down. 

Mycroft followed them as far as the double doors. He watched through the tiny windows as nurses surrounded Abbie and started prepping her for EKG scans. They turned the hallway corner and he was alone. 

-

Greg arrived twenty minutes later, and in that span, Mycroft had asked every nurse that walked by if he could see Abbie. He never got the answer he wanted, just a confirmation that Abbie was okay and he could see her soon. 

Greg ran through the sliding doors of the A&E, frazzled, and dry. _Did the rain stop and I didn’t notice? He’s carrying a bag— what’s in the bag?_

“Where’s Abbie? What happened, is she okay?” Greg asked. It had been the first time in days Mycroft had seen him, and he looked exhausted. 

“It’s been twenty minutes and they won’t let me back to see her,” he said. 

“But what _happened_ , Mycroft? I get a call from Anthea, saying Abbie turned up, freezing and soaking wet, and then fucking fainted in your reception room!”

“Gregory, please, calm down. I do not know what happened. She looked... hurt, scared, disoriented. She said she ran all the way from East London. That’s at least forty-five minutes walking!”

Greg took a deep breath, trying to think. “She... she was at her boyfriend's flat the past week. She said she wanted to give me space because—“ he glanced at Mycroft with a guilty look, “— well, yeah. I... fuck, I wasn’t paying attention.”

“This is not _your_ fault, Gregory.”

“Myc—“ He needed to apologize. He needed to tell Mycroft he loved him. 

“Mr. Holmes?” A doctor walked up to the pair. “Abigail is—“

“Is she okay?” Greg asked. 

“She is doing just fine. Would you like to see her?”

“Yes please,” Mycroft said. 

They followed the doctor to Abbie’s room. 

“What exactly happened?” Greg asked. 

“Abigail was in the cold rain for too long, without wearing exactly the warmest clothes. The cold, and the exhaustion of running in the cold, along with not having eaten anything in two days—“

“— Sorry, _what?_ Two days?”

“And the bruise on stomach suggests that Abigail is suffering some form of abuse...”

Mycroft watched as Greg’s expression flashed from worried to furious. He was going to kill Quincy, and if he didn’t get a chance to do that, he’d be dragging him out of that East London flat in handcuffs... perhaps with a broken nose. 

He reached out and took Greg’s hand, trying to ground him. “May we see her now?”

“Yes, of course.” The doctor opened the door to her room. 

Abbie was sitting on the hospital bed covered in blankets and shivering. One of the blankets was electric. Her lips were no longer blue, but she was pale— paler than usual— and looked so small lying in that bed.

“Abbie...” Greg was across the room in a flash and hugging her. “Jesus, you’re freezing.”

“I’m sorry...”

“What are you apologizing for?” He pulled away slightly to look at her. 

Abbie looked between him and Mycroft. “I— I’m sorry for bothering you.”

“Abigail, you did not bother us. We were worried about you.”

“And you were more worried about us...” Greg added. 

“You two were fighting, and I didn’t— You two are perfect for each other, you shouldn’t be fighting...”

“That’s my fault...” Greg said. “I maybe... made it out to be a bit more dramatic than it actually was... Now,” Greg turned to Abbie. “Tell us what happened.” _Can’t go into that right now,_ Greg thought. _We have to focus on Abbie._

Abbie told them what had happened over the past week— as much as she could remember. How she felt she wasn’t eating enough, but Quincy had been telling her that she was, and when she would go to eat, he would berate her. And then the fight, and him hitting her. She didn’t know what else to do. She just started running and ended up at Mycroft’s. 

“I’m sorry...”

“Abbie, stop apologizing,” Greg said. “I’m going to kill the bastard.”

“Greg, please, no. Don’t do anything.”

“Don’t do anything? Abbie, he abused you. He’s _been_ abusing you.”

“I just want everything to stop. Please? What’s arresting him going to do? I just... I need to get out.”

“We can do that,” Mycroft said. “When you’re discharged, we can go get your things.”

Abbie squeezed her eyes shut. “I’m so tired. And cold. And fucking Christ, I’m _starving_.”

“What do you want?” Greg asked. “I’ll get you anything.”

“Something hot. Anything.”

“I’ll get it. Something’s got to be open, right?”

“Are you sure?”

“Yes. Here, I brought you some warm clothes.” He placed the bag in the bed. “When Anthea called, she said you might need them.”

“Thank you...”

“I’ll go get you something to eat.” He smiled. “I’ll be right back.”

The room fell quiet after Greg left to find Abbie some real food, leaving just Abbie and Mycroft and the beeping of the machines beside her. She grabbed the bag. “Turn around?” He turned around as she got up and started to change. 

“Did you set this up?” The tone of his voice had turned from concerned to suspicious. 

Abbie narrowed her eyes. “Did I... _set this up?_ Seriously, Mycroft? Did my boyfriend not let me eat for two days, knock the wind out of me, and then I run here in the cold, pouring rain, so I can pass out in your reception and land in the hospital... all for a ruse to get you and Greg _talking?_ ”

His jaw tightened and he turned back around when he heard her get back into the bed. 

“Yeah, it sounds stupid now that you’re thinking about it, isn’t it?” She asked and sat up a bit. “And, by the way, the whole argument between you two is stupid.”

“Abigail—“

“I know that I am really not the one to be giving any advice on love right now, as Sherlock has a better love life than me, and his is nonexistent, but Greg. _loves_. You. I get it that you are... apprehensive to be out. And that’s okay. You have every right to be, and no one is... is going to out you, Mycroft. But to push Greg away?”

His jaw finally unclenches and his shoulders dropped. “... I hate you.” He took a seat in the chair beside her bed. 

“You don’t.” She couldn’t help the slight upturn of the corner of her mouth. “I _know_ you don’t.”

“You know nothing... You... I don’t know who, or _what_ , you are, Abigail Coleman. You came into our lives just three months ago and... With the force of a wildfire. Came into our lives, learned a secret neither of us has told anyone, not even our family...”

Abbie sat up and swung her legs over the side of the bed, getting them tangled up in the uncomfortable blankets, to face Mycroft. _He looks like shit, too. Jesus._ She took a deep breath. 

“I know your full name is _not_ Mycroft Holmes; I know you were born on October 31st, and you pretend to hate it, but let’s face it, you _love_ Halloween. On that, I’m not _entirely_ convinced you’re not a vampire. Vampire Spy? Erm... I know that Greg was your first love... you broke up… and then you got back with Greg and you two are... _literally_ a couple out of a fairytale. And you love him very much and he loves you very much.” She grinned. 

“I know that you like Greg’s flat because it feels more like home. I know that you had to grow up way too quickly. I know that you love Sherlock very much, and you just want what’s best for him... I know that you love fantasy books. Like, the nerdy ones. You’re a huge nerd, and yet you wear those three-piece suits, and it’s so endearing to me. I know that you were, in fact, a James Bond spy—“

“Not a spy.” He cleared up. 

“Okay, MI6, _whatever_. You were out in the field and got injured and I know that you don’t do well with dead bodies which is ironic because your brother and your partner and the weird girl that lives in the guest bedroom solve murders.”

“Abigail—“

“I know that you had a slight stutter when you were little... and when you’re really upset it— kinda comes back. I know that you have a sweet tooth, but you say you’re on a diet even though you are like, _so_ skinny. I know that you’re actually a lot more well-versed in pop culture than people believe you are. I know that when you’re upset or stressed you— you dig the heels of your palms into your eyes which, I mean, I’m not a doctor, but I don’t think that’s good for your eye health.” She tried to make it light, especially since Mycroft’s eyes were beginning to look teary, and he was just bringing up his hands to no doubt do what Abbie had just pointed out. She took his hands, instead, and held them, giving them a squeeze, and then loosening her grip.

Her throat tightened. “I know that you and Greg have been... so nice to me these past couple months. And I was so lost... so lonely... and I don’t...” _I’m not crying. I don’t cry anymore. I ran out of tears a long time ago._ But her voice sounded like she was sobbing, and she honestly wished the tears would flow. It would feel better; release the tension. 

“I’ve lost _so much,_ Mycroft. And I’m sorry it had to be you and Greg, to— to deal with my emotional baggage. I really am. But I don’t— _I can’t_ — lose anyone else.”

“Abigail...”

“You have—“ she took a shaky breath. “You have _no_ idea how good you have it. You are smart and successful and you are loved... so very very loved. Your family is still alive, and they get to nag you and call you at inopportune times. I know he may not show it, but Sherlock does love you, in his own Sherlockian way. And Greg— he looks at you like you’ve bloody hung the stars. He loves you more than anything. It _kills_ him that he can’t talk about you to his friends and coworkers. It _kills_ him he has to keep a photo of you locked in his desk drawer. And when I came along, I think he just finally burst and had to tell someone because he just talks about you _nonstop_ when we’re together and—“ she brought her hand up to cover her mouth. Every word began to feel forced out of her right throat. “And I absolutely adore it! I adore you both! And I don’t know why, but it took knowing you both to realize how shit my life has been. I’ve let a boy I’ve dated for five years treat me like absolute shit!” 

The first tear flowed. It was the first tear in eight years, and it felt so good to let go. However, eight years of no tears meant there was a dam that was just broken. 

“Abbie.” As she brought her hands up to her face, Mycroft stood and wrapped his arms around her. 

It took a while for Abbie to get settled down. When her heart rate went up, the nurse rushed in, only half-relieved to find her patient sobbing instead of something worse. She peeled Abbie from Mycroft, helped her out of bedm and wheeled her IV stand to the bathroom to get her cleaned up and calmed down. 

While Abbie composed herself, the nurse came out. “Are you her brother?” She asked Mycroft. 

It caught him off guard. _How to explain their relationship? Ah, no, that’s just my partner’s work partner who has been living at his flat for the past two months so she didn’t have to go home, who has given me no choice but to become close with her, and, despite only knowing her for three months, I have come to care a great deal for her._

“Yes, something like that,” he answered. 

“Well, she’s very lucky to have you.” Her smile was sweet. _Obviously one of those nurses that absolutely loved her job and loved helping people, even at one in the morning. She would do it for free if she didn’t live in London and had to pay rent._ “And she knows that. She loves you very much.” 

Mycroft couldn’t come up with an answer to that. 

“I’ll be right back, dear. Do you need anything?”

He shook his head and the nurse left. She came back a few minutes later, and Mycroft was still seated, speechless, just as Abbie came out of the restroom. 

“Here you go, sweetheart. Now, let’s get you back into bed.”

Abbie took the styrofoam cup with a bright pink bendy straw the nurse handed her. “Thank you.”

As the nurse helped her back into the hospital bed, Abbie offered Mycroft a look of apology. She waited until the nurse left to say, “Sorry about that.”

“About what?”

“Crying. I don’t cry. I haven’t cried in years. But I especially hate crying in front of other people. I’m such an ugly crier.”

Mycroft smirked, “Is there anyone that looks beautiful while crying?”

“Keira Knightley, maybe?” She took a sip of her water. There was something completely different to her than when she went into that bathroom. Sure, her eyes and nose were red, and she looked so tiny in that hospital bed, sipping on a bendy straw. It reminded Mycroft of a child. _She is a child,_ he reminded himself. At least to him, she was. 

But she looked... lighter. Like a giant boulder of a weight had been lifted off her chest. It could have been the fluorescent lighting, but she looked almost as if she were glowing. 

-

The only place open and closeby was a chips stand a few blocks from the hospital. Thankfully the rain had slowed. Greg made his way back to the hospital. 

He had spent the past week without Mycroft and throwing himself into his work. He was exhausted. And now this. 

_I should have seen it. I should have known. And now I’ve let it get so far that Abbie was hurt._

When he entered the hospital lobby, it was empty, except for the receptionist and a red-haired woman, frantically asking for a room number. She was tall and thin, glasses, and still in her pajamas. She must have just gotten a call very much like Greg had. _Your loved one is in the hospital. Come see them._

“Thank you so much.” The woman said. She had a thick Irish accent. As Greg turned down the hallway to Abbie’s room, the woman followed, then passed him. As she got closer to Abbie’s room, he called out, “Can I help you?”

The woman stopped and turned to him, flushed, with tears in her eyes. “My sister. I got a call, my sister is here, but no one would tell me what happened.”

“Alright, calm down. I’m sure she’s fine. What room is she in?” He asked. 

“Room 23.”

Greg froze. _That’s Abbie’s room. That means that this woman is..._ It finally clicked. _Christ, she looks so different._

“She’s in that room,” he pointed and she rushed in without another thought. She ran into the room and stopped in her tracks when she saw Abbie in the hospital bed. 

Whereas Abbie nearly dropped her cup. “Good fucking lord...”

Mycroft followed her line of sight and when he saw the woman standing there, he got up and moved out of the way, looking confused. 

“Abigail, Jesus fucking Christ, Mary and Joseph!” The woman crossed the room and grabbed Abbie by her shoulders and pulled her into a death-gripping embrace. “Do you know what you have put me through?”

“Lovely to see you, as well. Thanks so much for asking how I am, Lucille.” Abbie wriggled out of her grip. 

“Lucille?” Mycroft asked. “So you’re...”

“Mycroft Holmes, meet my sister, Lucy Coleman-Taylor.”

Abbie wanted so badly to slap the bemused look on both of the men’s faces. 

“I am so sorry,” Lucy said, looking at the two men.” Please excuse how much of a mess I look. When the hospital called, I just jumped out of bed.”

“You look perfectly fine for someone under these circumstances,” Mycroft said. 

Lucy huffed out a laugh. “Thank you. Mycroft?”

“Indeed.” He shook her hand. “Abigail has told me so much about you.”

“Probably all bad things,” she grinned. “And...” she turned to Greg. “Hello, Officer Lestrade.”

“Jesus, look at you, Lucy.” Greg held out his arms and Lucy stepped into them. “You look so different, I’m sorry I didn’t realize.”

“Well, it’s been some years. Uni, three kids, and a law career will take an effect on you. I’m _so_ glad Abbie’s found you again,” she whispered. She stepped back. “Your hair is different.”

“I got older,” Greg grinned. 

“Not _that_ much older. You’re only, what, ten years older than I am? I think it looks good though.” She looked him up and down.

“Lucille Penny Coleman-Taylor keep it in your knickers. You’re married and Greg’s partner is right here.”

“Oh!” She blushed. “I’m _so_ sorry, I—“

Mycroft smiled. “It’s quite alright. I’m used to it.”

“Lucy had a big crush on Greg after everything. Called him, ‘That ride, Officer Lestrade.’ Now he’s, ‘That ride, Detective Inspector Lestrade.’” Abbie teased. 

“If you weren’t in a hospital bed, I’d punch you so hard in the tit,” Lucy said through gritted teeth. 

“Go ahead, it’ll match the bruise on my stomach.”

“Sorry, _what bruise,_ Abigail? Are you going to tell me what happened?”

“Erm...”

“It was that prick Quincy wasn’t it? Abbie, did he hurt you? I swear, I’ll kill him myself!”

“You can’t say that in front of a police officer, Lucy!”

“No, she’s fine,” Greg said. “Because first thing in the morning, I’m dragging that little asshole down to Scotland Yard.”

“And I was going to help Greg avoid the charges when he eventually beat the boy within an inch of his life,” Mycroft added. 

“You’re all terrible,” Abbie rolled her eyes. “I _told_ you both I’m not doing anything.”

“Abbie, tell me everything.”

When Abbie finished telling Lucy what had happened, she thought her sister was going to blow a gasket. She had never liked Quincy, even when he and Abbie started dating when she was 15. She always knew that Quincy was trouble. He lived down the street from their Aunt Helen’s and had gotten kicked out of his own school for constantly skipping, smoking in the boy’s restroom, and finally, getting in a fight with another boy. Still, Abbie stayed with him. She believed she could help him turn his life around, and there were times when he showed promise, only to go back to his old ways. 

Lucy saw how they fought. She knew all couples fought— even she fought with her husband Chris over the stupidest little things— but not like those two. Quincy had a short fuse and _always_ had to be right, and so he had to contradict everything Abbie said because she was usually right. They would get into hours-long screaming matches, with Abbie presenting all sorts of evidence to back her argument, while Quincy continued to deny everything and then gaslight Abbie. Eventually, Lucy thought, Abbie probably began to believe the lies Quincy was telling her, and that’s when she would back down. 

He liked to throw salt in her deepest wounds. He’d constantly bring up that she was an orphan, or that she was always going to be second-best to Lucy, even though Lucy always believed that _she_ was the one playing catch-up to Abbie. He’d make fun of her for going to the Westminster School and getting the finest education, calling her privileged and posh, when she and Abbie had grown up the complete opposite. It would be him who would talk Abbie out of getting her criminal justice degree at Cambridge after she got accepted, so she could go straight to the police academy, but he constantly threw it in her face that she never went to Uni, and that she was a quitter, and probably wouldn’t be smart enough for Cambridge anyway. It was he who made Abbie believe that she alone denied her acceptance. 

Lucy tried to help. She tried to get Abbie out of there, telling her she could always stay at her and Chris’s and that there was an entire downstairs apartment she could have to herself. But she wouldn’t leave, and then she would get defensive and it would turn into a big fight. Half of the time, Lucy thought Abbie was purposefully forgetting most of it. Or maybe Quincy was making her forget and sabotaging her journal. Lucy finally got sick of fighting after she had her twin daughters, and that’s when they became estranged. 

So Lucy was furious at Quincy for obvious reasons, frustrated with Abbie because she didn’t reach out, but mostly, she was disappointed with herself, because she wasn’t there for her baby sister. But she thanked G-d that Abbie had Greg, and this Mycroft seemed to care for her too. She thanked G-d that her sister had found someone who would be a friend and watch after her and make sure she was okay and she thanked G-d that of everyone in London, it was Greg Lestrade, who held Abbie’s hand when Lucy had to explain to the police officers how they had found their mother, and who held Abbie’s hand at the lowly funeral they held for their mother. And now here he was, holding Abbie’s hand in the hospital because if Abbie had one person in her life who would protect her, Lucy truly believed that it was him. _Thank G-d for Greg Lestrade._

“Could you ever forgive me?” Lucy asked when Abbie was finished. 

Abbie looked at her, narrowed her eyes, and then softened her expression. “Of course... Lucy, you’re my sister... Of _course_ , I forgive you, I love you...”

Lucy clenched her jaw. “I love you too...” she reached out and took Abbie’s hand. She still felt so cold. “Can I get you anything? How about some tea? I’m sure there’s a kettle somewhere in this hospital.” 

“Yeah...” Abbie smiled slightly. “Maybe it’ll help me sleep.”

“Okay,” she stood up. “Can I get anyone anything?” 

“I’ll accompany you,” Mycroft said. “Perhaps where there is tea, there is coffee.” 

They walked together, Lucy with her arms wrapped around her middle, staring at the floor. “How has she been?” Lucy asked. “Really. I mean, you seem close, you must know—“

“You must know, Lucille, I’ve only known her for three months now.”

“Oh. Right, sorry. I just— right.”

“The Abigail she _lets_ me know of the past two years is somewhat of a mystery. I could tell you everything about her life that is made public on record.” He stopped walking and Lucy did too. “She does not talk about that time in her life more than she has to. I am still learning about her. So, as far as this Quincy goes—“

“I’ll kill that stupid bastard,” Lucy growled. 

“You will not. He is not worth it.”

“I wish she’d press charges... just so I could represent her and get his ass sent to jail where he belongs. What if she had gotten seriously hurt? What if she hit her head. She has—“

“— Anterograde amnesia, yes. But I promise she will be fine.”

“She’ll have to move out... she has no place to go. I mean, she can always move in with me; we have the room, but she won’t want that. She didn’t want that when she was eighteen and ran away, she’s not going to want it with three kids in the picture. And I doubt she has enough money for a flat of her own.”

Mycroft hadn’t thought about that. _Yes, of course, Abbie would move out of the flat with Quincy, and she would be safe._ But that’s as far as any of them had thought of, and it was uncharacteristic of Mycroft not to think five steps ahead. _But where would Abbie go?_

This was all sudden; it wasn’t like she had been saving up for a flat of her own to escape to. Yes, she could always go live with Lucy, but Mycroft knew Abbie enough that he knew she loved her older sister, but would probably lose her mind if she had to live with her. And then it dawned on Mycroft. 

“Abigail is going to live with us, of course,” he said. 

“Pardon?” 

“Yes... Yes, she’s going to move into Gregory’s flat in Chelsea. She’s been staying in the guest bedroom for some time now, and— Well, I suspected something was strange when her things started accumulating and never quite found their way back to her flat. I just blamed it on her forgetfulness. But she’s been making a plan all along.”

“I... Mycroft, I could— I would never let Abbie do that to you and Greg. You both have already done so much for her, I don’t want to put housing and feeding her on you, too. Not to mention the baggage.”

Mycroft shook his head. “Lucille, it is no bother. As I said, she’s practically been living there already. And money is no issue. When she’s there, I know she’s sleeping soundly, Gregory has someone to cook for who actually enjoys eating, and I assure you, she is always fed well there. I— We enjoy her being there.”

Lucy’s eyes were brimming with tears. Mycroft decided then and there that he would have to accept being surrounded by emotion. 

“That girl has never gotten a break... Not once. She has _always_ gotten the short end of the stick and life has just beaten the shit— sorry— out of her. And I prayed that something good would happen for her... I just wanted to know that wherever she was, she was cared for and loved...” She sniffed. “Never did I think my prayers would be answered, but—“ she shrugged, and gave a teary-eyed grin. “Here we are.” 

Mycroft mirrored her smile. “Abigail does not have to go through this alone, nor do you have to bear the weight on your shoulders. Let us help you?”

Lucy wrapped her arms around him, squeezing and then relaxing her grip, much like the way Abbie hugged. Mycroft also realized that along with emotion, he would have to get used to hugging. 

-

An hour later, half of them had succumbed to sleep. Mycroft had insisted on taking the chair next to Abbie’s bed, while Greg and Lucy took the spare hospital bed in the room. They had spent the last hour catching up like they were old friends until they both dozed off, Greg’s arms respectively crossed. 

It had taken forever for Abbie to just get comfortable in the bed, with all the wires and the IV, before she was able to turn on her side and rest. 

Mycroft sat, with his elbows resting on the edge of her bed and his hands clasped under his chin, staring out the window on the other side. He was thinking; thinking about Abbie, and what would have to be done to safely get her things from her flat and move them into Greg’s. He was thinking about Greg, and how their domestic dynamic would now change, but whenever Mycroft tried, he couldn’t find himself to come up with a negative aspect to having Abbie around. He and Greg slept on the first floor while Abbie slept on the ground floor, so they had their privacy. She wasn’t loud, wasn’t untidy, wasn’t rude. Okay, sometimes she was loud. But loud in a happy way. Loud in a laughing way, or singing. She was a bit grumpy in the mornings, but once she had her vitamins and her coffee and started to piece some of her memory together, she was fine. She was smiley. Mycroft had never met someone who smiled so much since he met Greg. 

He kept coming back to the nurse’s questions for some reason when she asked how Mycroft was related to Abbie, and how easily he had agreed with her that she was his sister— “or something like that.” He didn’t even hesitate. It was as if she—

“Myc...” he heard her whisper and then felt her hand reach out for him. “Can you not sleep either?”

“No, I’m afraid not,” he said in a low voice. “I thought you’d gone to sleep a while ago.”

“I’m cold...”

 _That was a lie_ , Mycroft noted. _There was something she wasn’t saying. Yes, she was cold, she had been cold all night, but there was something else._

Abbie sat up a bit and scooted over to the opposite edge of the bed. “You should get some sleep too.” She patted the now empty space on the bed. 

“I’ll be okay, Abbie,” he assured her. 

“Myc, please?”

He sighed as he stood. “Incorrigible.” Once he was situated, and her head pressed against his chest, she asked, “What were you thinking about?” 

“I was thinking... thinking of making it publicly official— my relationship with Gregory.”

Abbie smirked. “I’m glad you feel ready. Your heart is beating really hard, though. So what are you afraid of?”

“I’ve decided I can handle the scrutiny. I am in the public eye, after all, and this is something I should have expected all along. I don’t want Gregory to feel I am hiding him. I want to do the exact opposite, actually. I just... I don’t want him to get hurt.”

“Who cares what people say or think? Greg loves you, and as long as you’re with him, I don’t think he’s going to care what anybody says about him or your relationship... He might break someone’s nose if they say one bad word about you, but that’s just Greg.”

Mycroft smiled. “I would make his public debut dramatic, of course. Bring him to one of the many social events I am forced to attend. Usually, I make polite conversation and keep to myself, but with him there... he’d charm absolutely everyone in the room into loving him.”

“With that smile...”

“You would be there, too, of course.”

“Wait, really?”

“Why not? You’re both important to me. If I’m going to start this new chapter in my life— be somewhat open about my life— I would want both of the people I love in that new life with me.”

Abbie’s hand found Mycroft’s free one. She held hands much like she hugged, as well: first a reassuring squeeze, and then relaxed. 

“I love you too, Mycroft,” she whispered and closed her eyes. Mycroft stayed silent, staring at the ceiling until her breathing fell into a steady pattern. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Come hang out with me on [Twitter](http://www.twitter.com/EmilieCrossan1) @EmilieCrossan1

**Author's Note:**

> Come hang out with me on [Twitter](http://www.twitter.com/EmilieCrossan1) @EmilieCrossan1


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